Feeling Middle-Earth
by v3Olympus
Summary: A collection of one-shots revolving around the emotions of various characters ranging from Aragorn and Arwen to Elladan and Elrohir. *Ordered according to the timeline in the books*
1. Hunger

**Hunger**

Summary*

**Not much mention is made if the giant arachnid who destroyed Laurelin and Telperion. Shelob, her descendant was killed by Samwise Gamgee many ages later, but what happened that day? How did it all end?**

There is only one thing she has thought of all her life. Only one thing that she lived for. One thing that could not be contained no matter what she did, and so it was that their deal came to be. He promised her _anything_ she wanted. She had believed him then. He was a fallen Vala, and he had the power to give her anything she desired. She serves him now, yet he turned his back on her. Denied her one request after all she had done, and he was going to pay for it. Vala or not, he would pay for crossing her.

She had asked for only one thing. Or three, depending on how you saw it. The silmarils that Feänor had forged. She wanted the light that shone through it. It blinded her, as had the two trees, but the beauty of those jewels she found beyond compare to destroy them. She had felt no remorse for destroying the two most treasured creations of Yavanna, yet she desired the silmarils that held their light. Laurelin and Telperion she had wrecked, but the three jewels stirred in her a great desire, and upon Morgoth's refusal, anger. She was Móru of the night. She had once spun her web of darkness to hide Morgoth, but now, the same darkness would be the end of him.

She was Wirilomë, who had not hesitated to eat even her own children to sate her hunger. She had ever only tasted her kind, never a Vala. Perhaps, she would know now. After all, he may have been powerful, but she had as much power if not more. She had been there before their creation, and she had not been one to waste her power on other creations. She would end him that instant. Perhaps his power would sate the growing monster within her. Perhaps he would sate her craving for more, for even her own offspring had not been enough.

She reared up on her hind legs- two of eight- in the terrible form that she had taken. Powerful or no, this would end today- with her death or his. She lashed out at Melkor, the venom oozing from them as she attempted to impaled him. Her mandibles clicked in anticipation of snapping her prey in two. The darkness swirled around her like a tempest waiting to be unleashed, even as Melkor scrambled to evade her. He had not expected this. He had not counted on her to be crazed by the silmarils just as he had been, and he would pay dearly for that if he did not act soon. There was no one to help him now, and so, Ungoliant surged ahead, backing him up until he had nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide. His screams for aid echoed across the land,but there were none who walked the lands who would dare help him.

She struck once, she struck twice, and each time her vigour doubled, so did the volume of Melkor's screams. That is when she felt it. A sharp pain down her back. It burned. Burned like she was on fire. She turned around to face the new enemy- the one who had dared to step in between her and the one she had singled out as prey. Where she was darkness, they were fiery, glowing with anger. It took her a while to realize that the enemy had not set fire about her- _they_ were _on_ fire. A brood of their own created by the fallen Vala, surrounding her was an army of creatures that would be called the balrog- demons of might.

As they struck her with their fiery whips, she hissed out in pain. She could not see beyond it, think beyond it. She tried hiding herself in the webs of darkness that she wielded, but it was futile against the flames that engulfed her. She faced no choice but to flee. She, the hunter, had now become the hunter. She, who prided herself in being the strongest predator, now found herself the prey. She scuttled around in search of a place to hide, but the balrog were beyond her power. This was a fight she could not win.

What happened next it something no one is sure of. Some say Eärendil the Mariner killed her when he came across her accursed presence. If he killed her that day, then it is possible that the other tale were simply myth, but if that is not so, then her death was a cruel one, even for a cruel creature like her. For days, she wandered, finding no prey to feed on. She hid in fear of being found once more,yet plotting her own revenge. A few of her spawn managed to survive her, and there was no means for sustenance.

For days she went, her existence becoming more pathetic by the day. Her throat burnt, parched from thirst. Her appetite had grown by far from what it used to be and the odds were clearly against her. She could feel her stomach growl and rumble, but there was no remedy for that save food- food which she found to be scarce. In a dark cave in a corner of the world, she lay in waiting, too worn out to scuttle around while fending for herself. She sustained herself on a few unfortunate victims that crossed paths with her, unknowing of the monster that awaited them in the dark, but soon, rumours ran rife once more, and even the few unlucky ones stopped coming.

Surrounded by the darkness that had once been her haven, she started losing her mind. She looked all around her for her release, yet she found none. With a rabid look in her eyes, she gazed at the one thing she could see- in a reflection in a small puddle beside her, she saw a large spider of enormous proportions, and it reminded her of one thing- food. Eight large hairy legs she had- of course one would be expendable if it meant life. Little by little, she ate herself, the pain only a welcome respite for she had long forgotten how to live without it. That was the way she lived,and that was the way she died. Consumed by the one thing that meant her entire existance- _hunger_.


	2. Burnt Apart

**Burnt Apart**

Summary*

**All know the tale of the Quenta Silmarillion. All know the tale of the Feänorians. Of their oath, their crimes, and their ultimate downfall. One version of the legendarium speaks of the burning of the ships at Losgar, where it is said that the youngest of the eight died. What were his thoughts as he watched it all go up in flames?**

_Hot_. That is the first word that comes to his mind as he wakes from Elven dreams. The next thing that registers in his mind is the shouts of the people around him- of whose host, he does not know. He supposes that it would be either his father's if not his uncle Ñolofinwë's. For as long has he has lived, the two of them have always been at loggerheads, something that has caused a deep rift in his family. It seems unbelievable that their fathers would quarrel so while their eldest sons are as close as can be. In fact, the entirety of it all is unbelievable in itself.

_Blood_. His hands are stained with the blood of his kin, and try as he might, images of that horror refuse to leave him in peace. He wonders if his brothers,apart from his twin, feel the same way that he does. If they do, he does not know. Nelyafinwë, or Maitimo, he had always thought the more reasonable of them all. Kánafinwë, he had thought the most gentle in spirit. Turkafinwë, the one he had admired and learnt from, or even Morifinwë and Curufinwë. He had not thought any of them capable of those deeds. He had not thought Pityafinwë capable of it. Worst of all, he did not think _he_ was capable of it, but it had all happened.

No one knew what had happened that day, but one thing was clear to him. He would find no peace yet. Not on the deck of the swan ship that he had killed for, not in Aman, from where he has now been banished. His heart goes out to his mother, whom he knows he has betrayed in the worst way possible. He remembers how pitiful she had looked as she pleaded with his father to leave at least the two of them. He remembers his mother's words at their parting, and wonders if she was right after all. When he had come aboard the ship the thought to go back had occurred to him, hadn't it? Uncle Arafinwë did, and it still wasn't too late. All he had to do was tell his twin, and they could escape the horrors together.

Perhaps he would no longer be allowed to set foot on Aman, but at least, he would be free of the bloodshed. Or would he? He had sworn the dreadful oath, and it would never let him go. It would consume him in madness like it would his father and his brothers, and madness it was. He can see it now. He thinks back to their times together at Tirion. It had still been happy then. Kánafinwë, Morifinwë and Curufinwë had still been happy with their wives. Findaráto had still had Amarië, and he had lived a carefree life with his twin, with no cares in the world, and enjoying the bliss of Valinor. Now, it has all come down to nothing but woe. The doom of Mandos lay upon them. Their grandfather has been murdered in cold blood by Morgoth and the silmarils have been stolen. Their family has been broken apart, and he does not know if anything will bring them back together ever again.

His father had burnt as bright as fire that day, his words instilling passion within all those that listened to him. A passion to explore Arda, and a passion for vengeance. That fierce spirit had been the reason his grandmother had called him Fëanáro. It had very nearly killed her then, but now, he can't help but wonder if it will kill the rest of his family too. If it does, he is glad that his mother would be safe from it all, sad and alone though she be back at the place he had called home. She at least will be spared the pain of seeing it all fall apart.

He can almost feel the flames licking at him, he muses. Suddenly, it feels like he is within a furnace, burning harsher than it does even in the forges. This time, he feels the tongues of fire on his skin, and the fogginess in his mind clears away. No longer does he dream. He sees the horror of it all once more. He sees red all around him. He has seen red before. The last time, it had been anger and blood. This time it is different. This time, it is fire. The ships are burning. They are turning to dust before his eyes,and he knows that soon, he too will be amongst those ashes. The fire had not been a figment of his imagination. He had fallen asleep on a swan ship. It is burning now, and soon, he will burn with it.

It is too late to try and escape now. He knows he will not make it. It will only be more painful if he tries. He has no doubts that his father had ordered them to be burnt, but why? Was it to spite his brothers? Was it to stop them from fleeing like he would have? He does not know the answers to his questions, and he knows he will never get them. He wonders if his father knows that he is on the ship. He wonders if it will still matter to him once he knows that he tried to take the ship back home. He wonders if any of his brothers noticed his absence, or if they had tried to stop their father. If any had known and tried, it would have been Maitimo or his twin.

_Pityafinwë. His other half._ If there is one regret that he has above all else, it is his brother. Ever since birth, they have shared everything. Even their name. _Ambarussa_. He regrets having to leave his brother alone in such a manner, without even a single word of farewell. He regrets having to cause so much pain. He knows what his twin would try to do. There would be no reasoning with him if he so decided to try and rescue him. His heart cried for his loss, feeling every bit of anguish that he knows his brother would be feeling.

The flames are but a dull ache. It is this parting that shatters him. He had known that death could await them in Middle-Earth, but the two of them have always wanted it to come for them together. They had come into the world together, and would have wanted to leave it that way, but it seems now to him that he has been denied even that small mercy. This is by far the worst fate that he can imagine. His mother's words would come true after all. He would never set foot on Middle-Earth. The last thing that comes to his mind before he leaves for the Halls is the face of his twin. A face so like to his own, the only difference being the slightly darker shade of his hair. He would never see that face again. Ever would he remain Umbarto, the fated, torn apart from his twin by his own father's hand- _burnt apart._


	3. One Jewel Over Two

**One Jewel Over Two**

Summary*

**Elwing has known no peace ever since she fled with the silmaril from Doriath. She has survived the bloodshed once, but it has come for her yet again. As she flees Sirion, she must make a choice- to save her twin sons, or the silmaril that she lives to protect.**

_Destruction. Death._ She has seen it all, yet she faces a choice she would rather not make. She had only been a child when it had first happened. Dior the Fair, they had called her father,yet he had not seemed so as he lay bathed in his own blood. Her mother had fallen to the same swords. Pity had not stayed their hands that day, and of her two brothers, Eluréd and Elurín, she had never heard of them since that black night when all hell had broken loose. She had run for her life that day, and as fate would have it, she would face the decision to do so once more.

Is it not enough that she has beheld the jewel once and lost her family to it? Is it not enough that she has known no peace even after she found Eärendil the Mariner? Is it not enough that she blames herself for never being able to love her own two children as much as a mother would? _No_ It is not enough, she realizes. It will _never_ be enough. There is no greater light or gift that she can posses than the jewel that she has beheld. A silmaril, with the light of the trees contained within it. It tears at her to know that even her own to creations cannot equal mere jewels, but she cannot help it.

She thinks back to the days before the kinslayers had picked up her trail. The years when Elrond and Elros had been her life and joy even as Eärendil was away sailing. She thinks of the days when she had meant everything to them, and they had meant everything to her. She remembers telling them tales from her own childhood, and tales of Lúthien, her grandmother. She tells them tales of her two brothers. She sees them in her own two sons. Twins, bound to one another by a love that ran deeper than any could fathom. For a while, the two of them had outshone the silmaril, yet now, as the sons of Feänor seek her, she feels the need to protect the jewel at all costs.

She is holding the two of them close to her now. She does not want to part with them. She will not let them die as she did her brothers. She will not let the wretched Fëanorians lay their bloodied hands on her. She can feel them tremble beneath her slender fingers. They can hear the warning bells even as she does. They know what is going to come. They have heard it from their mother. Their father is away, and they know that she is all that stands between them and the enemy. Their armies would fight back, but the Fëanorians would be coming after the jewel themselves.

She watches the city burn from her place above. She watches as her subjects are cut down as though they were nothing more than weeds in the path if their enemy. She remembers the day her parents died, and she knows that she has no hope if she stays within the four walls. She would have to flee once more. She kneels down and places a small kiss on her children's brow. A parting gift to remember her by, if she never saw them again.

Finally , she picks up the jewel that had been the cause of it all. Her family had died to protect it. She wears it upon her person, and takes hold of her twin sons' hands, memorizing every single detail of it. Then, she whispers to them, "_Never leave one another. Stay together, and if anything happens to me, run. Don't look back. Keep going till you both are safe."_

With Elrond and Elros holding out to each of her outstretched arms, she runs. Her fingers woven through theirs as they struggle to keep up with her pace, she flees as fast as she can manage to. She tries to shield her children as best as she can. She has seen so much blood before. She knows how haunting it can be, and it pains her to know that her children will feel the same thing too. The ghastly images of those faces, their eyes open but unseeing, is something she would never wish upon them.

The battlefield is an unforgiving place. It calls to her and her children, to hold them close in its embrace. It has been long since she has wielded a blade, but the instinct of a mother to protect her child makes her deadly with the one she now wields. Her dress is now tattered from the unforgiving edges of swords. The hem, that had been a white as pure as the wings of a swan, is now bloodied and a rusted shade of red. She trips, she falls, she ducks, she swirls, but she does not stop. She _will_ not, with Maedhros hot on her trail.

She comes to a stop near the shore of the sea she has long admired. She must make a choice that she has made once before, but it is not any easier as a mother of two elflings. On one side lies the battlefield that she is desperately trying to flee. Somewhere out there, her children are still fleeing. She knows not what has become of them ever since she lost hold of them somewhere through the battle. Her heart aches at her loss, and a part of her wants to run back into all that madness, screaming herself hoarse till she finds her children safe in her arms once more.

She feels empty, and yet, the light from the silmaril stirs something within her. A kind of possessiveness that she has not felt even towards her sons. She knows she cannot save all three of them. If she turns back, she will be caught, and the struggles of her father and her grandmother before him would have been for not. She will not give it up. She knows not if her sons yet live, but she will not give up the silmaril as long as she lives. She throws herself into the sea. If she goes under, the silmaril will be lost with her. It would never be reclaimed by the sons of the Spirit of Fire.

For a moment she does not understand what has happened. Where there were once slender arms, she now sees wings as pale and beautiful as the moon. The silmaril is still around her. It takes her a moment to realize that it is Lord Ulmo's blessing. She doesn't hold back after that. She flies away with all the strength left in her. Her grief will not let her stop. As she sets foot on Eärendil's on his ship, the weight of all that has happened comes crashing down- _she has chosen one jewel over two._


	4. One of Nine

**One of Nine**

Summary*

**Not much is known of the nine men doomed to die that the legend speaks of. Khamûl alone is named if those nine fell beings called the Ringwraiths, or the Nazgûl. They were said to be great kings of men, and powerful sorcerers. A small look at their leader, even as he stands on the Fields of Pelennor.**

_Power_. The ring always hummed taunting tunes that reminded me of power. Power over all men, both fickle and strong. Power that I craved for. Power that made me greater among all others. Ever had I toiled to be counted among the great kings, and long did I strive to find fame and glory, yet none found me even as I sought them in vain pursuit. In men, elves and dwarves I found allies for war, but none who could give me such power as I desired, save one. Annatar, he had called himself- _giver of gifts_\- and it was as true as it could be, for his gift was the mightiest of them all- _a gift of power._

Soon after the forging of these rings, I received a message from Gil-Galad himself. A message to all of us who bore the rings to stop using them and cast them away at once, for they were evil. Had they even heard for themselves what they were asking of us? Even a fool would not throw away the power given to him. I cared not what became of it, if ever it did. It mattered not how the power would come to me. Sorcery is but a small part of it, one which would make the others fear me even more, and with fear too, there came power.

Soon it was revealed to us that Annatar was none other than Sauron, the former lieutenant of Morgoth. Some called it treason, but not me. To me, it was cunning, and intelligence, for how can it be called a betrayal when the deed has been done by he who holds more power than them? Is it called treason when a master decides on something unfavourable to those that serve him? No. He is entitled to do so. I would serve him, and learn for myself the arts of dark magic, and the world shall know my name and tremble.

It had not been so at the beginning. I had foolishly believed that this Annatar was nothing but a powerful Lord I could soon overthrow, but I was mistaken. Promise upon promise was heaped upon us in exchange for our services. The little love that my queen amd subjects held for me was slowly waning. As the days passed I could feel the shadows calling. The darkness fighting for control. I had not known then that my dreams of power would go unfulfiled- I would ever remain a servant to this Dark Lord, and with the little power that came with it ,I would have to be content, but before that, I had to act soon.

Long has it been the way of kings to claim greater lands through might than by right, and I did the same. I had dabbled in witchcraft before. The kingdom of Angmar would not be easily won without deceit. Ever since that day, not only did I have a new kingdom, but I was now known by a new name. A name that would strike fear into the hearts of men. I was the Witch-King of Angmar, and the name of my past would be long forgotten even as the world feared me. I was a leader of Sauron's armies now. All his forces answered to me as I answered to him alone.

For longer yet, after that, I had wasted away, and there was not a single day that passed without cursing the foul name of he who had tricked us all. Each day, the call of darkness grew stronger, and each day, a little more of my humanity left me. No more was I counted among the living, nor among the dead. I had become one with the shadows as had the eight others, but even with this darkness, there soon came power. We drew our strength from the shadows as we once had from the sun. Formless, nameless, we became synonymous with unspoken dread, and death.

Even as we had grown in strength, so had the kingdom of Gondor. The one they called the White City. It would not be long before it too would fall, and darkness would prevail. Arnor would fall before that. Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan. No power among men would be able to hold their own against us, but one among them had. Rhudaur fell first, and it had been by my own hand. The hillmen it was who had won it for me, yet they were merely pawns on the battlefield. Cardolan I took next, and Arthedain alone remained of the three.

Cursed be the kindred that call themselves the fair folk, for it was by their help that Arthedain still stood. Not one, but both Rivendell and Lindon had aided those men, and it had not been easy to overrun them all. I had to wait before I made my move. I would strike when they were at their weakest, and no one would be there to save them from the Witch-King of Angmar. The time that I had been biding for came soon enough. Argaleb and Arveleg I had already slain, and soon, Arvedui too would fall. Once more had he appealed for aid, to the king of Gondor, this time, but I knew they would be late. Allies I had in the barrow-downs, and the elves and men would arrive only to save the ruins that I'd leave behind.

They came soon enough, as I had expected, but it would be folly to stay and fight. I knew power when I saw it, for with them stood Glorfindel, and few among his foes lived to tell tales. Our armies were routed that day and I fled, but not before inflicting as much damage as I could upon the armies. Upon the men came a malady, and the horses bolted in fear, but even as I fled, I heard Glorfindel's words echo behind me. _I would not fall by the hands of men._

Never again did I return to Fornost, but in Minas Morgul I ruled. I was the Lord of the Morgul Vale, and none save Sauron himself could call themselves more powerful than I. Twice I challenged Eärnil, son of Eärnur to battle, and the second time, he came. I wonder if he thought himself brave or foolish to heed my request so, yet I was pleased, for that day, the line of kings came to an end. All that lay between me and Gondor were a few pesky Dúnedain and the line of Stewards. The fall of Gondor was near at hand, and I waited, having patiently served the One for over four millennia, and yet, something happened that had never been expected. The Ring had been found, and it called to us once more.

To the Shire I rode with the eight others in pursuit of a halfling they called Baggins. He could not outrun us, but a man had helped him. He had outwitted us, yet the hunt had not ended. On Weathertop we found him once more, and I pierced him with my Morgul Blade. His poor excuse of a sword did me no harm, though the name he uttered was harm enough. _Elbereth Gilthoniel_ he had cried out, and her power was greater than my own. Once more I fled into the night, but the victory was mine as I called out to the halfling.

Promise I heaped upon him and despair as Sauron had once done to me, yet he defied my call. An insignificant hobbit had defied me, and he would pay, but the power of the Bruinen stopped me. The black beasts of Rohan were drowned, for on the other side stood Glorfindel, terrible in his wrath, and I alone sped away with my black robes upon me. Twice more were my plans thwarted by Gandalf and by Théoden as I fought mounted upon a great fell-beast, yet the king of Rohan his own beast brought low. A naïve warrior stands now between me and my prey. He knows not that he cannot kill me. I am invincible. _Indestructible_. I am the Witch-King of Angmar. _One of Nine._


	5. Father of Hope

**Father of Hope**

Summary*

**It is not often that one of his kind meet death so soon, yet he did. Even more of a rarity are the deeds that his son did. Arathorn II has led a few of his men to fight the orcs that threaten their people, knowing full well that his time has come. As he lies bloodied and injured, the life leaving him little by little, he finds hope for what is to come, despite what has been lost.**

Three years. A time seemingly insignificant in the lifespan of a Dúnedan, yet so much had happened. He had seen much during that time, both joy and pain. He couldn't have asked for more when every moment of his life would be considered a gift by those who lived in the shadow of their enemy. Any moment he could simply cease to exist, overrun by the vile creatures against whom he defended his people. Given his ancestry, he had lived thus far with a target upon his back. Even after the War of Wrath, there had always been an abundance of the foul enemy hoards. Too many for his people to either be safe, or carefree.

Arathorn had counted himself lucky to have Gilraen by his side through thick and thin. Her father had strongly opposed their union. Arathorn had still been young, even by the standards of their people. It was her mother who had interceded on his behalf, and ever since, he had basked in the happiness that her presence had brought him. She could lift any burden off his shoulders with her gentle smile. One look, and his world would suddenly seem to consist of just the two of them. When he'd thought that there could be no man happier than him, tragedy had hit, _and it had hit hard._ His father and chief, Arador, had gone on a hunt, like any other day. It was not known to them that danger yet lurked that close to their lands. His father had been lost to trolls, bringing to him unwarranted grief and responsibility. All for a ring and lands that he may have managed to win from their thrice-cursed enemy.

During his tenure as their sixteenth chief, Arathorn had found himself lucky once more to be blessed with a son. Aragorn, he had named his bundle of joy. King of the Tree. He hoped his son would succeed where he and all his ancestors had failed. He hoped that the child he held dear to his heart would reclaim his birthright. He had no illusions that he would live to see that blessed day. Such hope had long been dispelled even before he had wedded Gilraen. Time and again he had been refused the hand of the lady he loved more than life. Time and again he had been told that her father would not condemn her to become a young widow.

The loss of his father had already begun to cast its shadow over him. He had much to protect, not the least of all his family. Would his son be brought to Rivendell just as he was? He did not know. In his time, Arador had been alive and well, leading the Dúnedain, while he had been educated at Rivendell. If he were to perish so soon, will his son still learn among the elves? Would not his people's hope be robbed from them? Perhaps his time would not come as early as he dreaded. Maybe he would still watch the little one grow into a fine lad. After all, what more did a man like him have, if not hope?

Days turned into months, and the months themselves blended into years. His people were slowly recovering from the vacancy that Arador's death had left, and the laughter of children could yet be heard. However, even such a small respite was not to be given to them. Orcs were crawling about once more. They had left on another hunt, but unlike other times, Arathorn could not dispel the feeling of dread that had gripped him with its cold claws. He tried to take heart in the fact that Elladan and Elrohir, who had watched him as he'd grown into a leader, were there with him. One couldn't ask for better company. They had a score to settle for themselves, having never forgotten their mother's suffering. Not much different from the rest of them, who had each lost a brother, father, husband,or son. Duty bound them together as people loyal to their leaders, and so did _revenge_.

Something was definitely amiss in the lands that they ventured, and they found their targets soon enough. It would have been an ambush, had not the rangers been prepared to face an attack any moment, on any front. Moreover, having elves among them surely played in their favour. Very soon, steel met steel, and archers were engaged in assisting their fellow comrades in any way they could. The Dúnedain had managed to route the enemy, but they had lost that day. Among the injured and fallen lay their leader, having taken an arrow through the eye. He still lived when Elladan and Elrohir found him, but they all knew that he was beyond healing hands, be they that of men or elves. It was too late for him. He would return as he had promised, but he wouldn't believe be arriving on his own to feet, head held high. He would be borne by his comrades, eyes closed in an eternal sleep.

Even as Arathorn continued fighting, he had known as soon as the arrow flew that his end would come, but he would not go down without a fight. Even as he lay fallen, blood gushing out of the wound, mingling with blood, red and black alike, he saw what had come to pass, and what awaited his people. He saw the times he had spent with his wife, and his son. Their wedding, Aragorn's first words, his first steps. He lived it all once more, then he saw something he wished was reality. Something he hoped would come true. He saw Aragorn as a grown lad, a fine one at that. He saw him leading the Dúnedain, and in the eyes of the men that followed, he saw their loyalty, love,and respect.

He saw Aragorn crowned king, ruling the lands of the White Tree he had been named after. Then, he knew that he would be at peace. He knew that Gilraen was strong. His death would cause her much grief, something he would never do willingly, but she would hold it together to raise Aragorn, and give him love enough for them both. He knew that Elladan and Elrohir would care for his son as they had cared for him. Whether the future he had seen would come to pass or no was in his hands no longer, but knowing that he had been the father of his people's hope, he went willingly to the halls of his ancestors. The prophetic words of his father-in-law would come to be fulfilled. The life left his eyes, as it did his body, but he would be ever living in name, known to all as the _father of hope._


	6. King Under the Mountain

**King Under the Mountain**

Summary*

**It had never been his destiny to become the King Under the Mountain. That had been a title his brother should have taken, if not his uncle. Thrust into a role he had only dreamed of,and never for himself, Kíli is now faced not only with the task of reviving the glory days,but also with dealing with the aftermath of battle all alone.**

_King Under the Mountain._ He would rather not recognise what it meant to him. Everything had gone wrong that day. The line of Durin had nearly been broken by Bolg, son of The Defiler. Sometimes, he wished that if no one else could have lived, then the line should have ended with him. He had never imagined that the title would fall to him. It was not the way things were meant to be. Thorin should have lived to see Erebor reclaimed. He knew life wasn't fair. He knew very well that Thorin had not expected to make it out alive. He _knew_ that Thorin had meant for them to succeed him, should he fall, and he had come to accept it. What he _couldn't_ have known was that Fíli wouldn't be the one taking the throne. Not even in the wildest of dreams had he imagined that his brother would be parted from him. His brother was a great warrior, raised to fulfil the very role that he was to assume now. Fíli had always been the stronger of the two, then why did _he_ die? Why did he have to part from the brother he had nearly raised all his life, when they were meant to be inseparable?

The battle and the events that led up to it were seared into his mind,fresh in memory as though it had happened but a few moments ago, when in truth, it had been days. For days,he continued to grieve when in solitude, for is it ever too long to mourn not one loved one, but two? With what courage would he face his mother, only to tell her that her that he had failed her? That she had lost not only her brother, but her son as well, while he took up the glorious mantle of king? What power did he have to claim the treasure hoards beneath the mountain, when his own uncle had been a victim of the sickness that lay upon it? What hope could he have that garnered the loyalty of his people when he had hidden away and watched his flesh and blood slaughtered as he continued to watch? He knew his brother had only meant well for him as he had stopped Kíli from jumping to their uncle's aid as he had. He knew that his own life meant much more to Fíli, but did his brother not see that Kíli never wanted a life without him by his side? Did his brother not realise that an honourable death at his side meant much more than this life of guilt?

_Thorin and a few of his finest warriors fought a losing battle at Ravenhill. Losing not because the battle would be lost, but because their **king** would be. The first blows had but been struck between Bolg and Thorin, but Thorin was spent. A mighty warrior weighed down by the looming effects of dragon sickness, and guilt for the actions that surrounded it. He still fought with all his might, but it would never be enough to face the Pale Orc spawn alone. His armour rent, his weapons showing signs of wear, they knew that their hope was fading away with every passing blow. Perhaps his heirs knew it too, for they had both rushed to their uncle to defend him with shield and body, but one look at the raging battle told Fíli what he had to do. The weight of the decision was tearing him apart, knowing that he would cause much pain to his brother, but it had to be done. They were heavily outnumbered and Fíli knew there was little hope of them all making it out alive. Thorin wanted the line of Durin to prevail. At least one of the brothers had to endure and Fíli would rather not let his little brother die. Telling his brother to await him there, facing a rather large goblin, instead of rushing into the heat of the battle, he left. There was no goodbye. Not because it had been said before their final stand, instead for fear that Kíli would never let him go if he knew the truth. By the time he overpowered his foes and took of in Thorin's general direction, it was too late._

_Bloodied and battle-worn, he reached Ravenhill only to be met with a sight he'd never hoped to see. Bolg had been vanquished, but there was no victory for him to rejoice. He had lost the only battle he'd ever wanted to win. Lying amongst the enemy hordes was his brother. Gone were the cheerful eyes that brimmed with mischief and excitement. They were now closed forever. Gone were those protective arms that comforted him when he lost a battle of his own. They lie lifelessly clutching a broken weapon. Gone was his loving brother, taking with him a part of Kíli himself. Tears threatened to stream down his face, but the battle was still raging. He had to save what was left of his brother from the defining hands of the enemy. Now more than ever, he had to make it out alive. Any unwarranted sound from him would alert his enemies to his presence. He couldn't afford that. The life that Fíli had saved would not be taken in vain. As he took a few steps forward, he froze once more. This time, he muffled sob found its way before it could be stifled. Not far from him lay his uncle. The life had not left him yet but it would soon. They were running out of time. Oblivious to the others fighting around him, he rushed to Thorin's side. "Hold on. Please!" He said, desperately hoping to avoid the fate that awaited them. He turned upon feeling a foreign touch upon his shoulders. His eyes met those of Beorn, mirroring his own pain and anger. With a nod, he bore Thorin out of the fray, while Kíli and the rest of the company defended the bloodied earth where their companion had fallen. Neither gobin, orc or warg stood a chance against Kíli's blade which held nothing but promise of death and vengeance. When at last the enemy had been defeated, they bore Fíli back to their camps while Kíli hurried to Thorin. Muttering a quick thanks, he knelt by his dying uncle. "Fili?" His uncle asked in a hoarse whisper. A stray tear and a lowered head told Thorin all that he needed to know. His hand tightened around his nephew's and in that moment, they both were together for one last time, in grief. "I'm proud of you both. I always have been. Lead them well" he said, and there was a long silence, only broken by the sounds of death. Kíli left soon after, and this time, he didn't hold back. A heart-wrenching cry left him, followed by sobs of anguish. After long, he stood quietly, and left to find what remained of the company._

His brother and uncle now lay buried under the very halls they had longed to live in. With Thorin, went his sword, Orcrist, and the Arkenstone he had long cherished in life. News had arrived of his mother's decision to come back to Erebor. She did not know of the lives the battle had taken. He would be the one to tell her, a small price to pay. A part of his treasure he had given away to the Elvenking, and a part to Bard and the people of Laketown. His uncle had given his word and he would abide by it. To Bilbo, who had miraculously survived, he gave the promised fourteenth share, though conflicted in mind. Despite harbouring a soft corner for the hobbit, he could not help but feel the bitter taste of resentment knowing that the halflings had survived where his strong and skilful brother had not. Nevertheless, he would not begrudge the hobbit his peace. He would continue the legacy of his uncle, treasuring their memories as a family while he lived out the rest of his life with a cursed crown he'd never wanted, as the _king under the mountain._


	7. Moria Awaits Us

**Moria Awaits Us**

Summary*

**It has been many years since the Battle of Five Armies. Dain Ironfoot now rules Erebor, but not all of them are at peace. It has been hard to live in a place that one of their own had desired yet perished before such dreams could be fulfilled. Balin is one of them. He now wants to lead an expedition to reclaim the ancient colony of Moria. Will he succeed in his quest? Will the others still follow him knowing what it is that awaits them?**

_Restless_. That was the one word Balin found to describe himself. Decades had passed since he had last wielded a weapon, but the memories of those that had fought beside him that day had haunted him. Three kings he had seen as they lost their lives- one to greed, one to madness, and the last to battle. He knew that he was not to blame, but that did not make it any easier to forget. The youngest of Durin's line had fallen as well and he knew there was no one else he would accept as his king. There was no one else save the rest of the company, with whom he would be honoured to fight for once more. He would take up his ancestors' quest. He would take Moria once more, even if he died trying, for there would be no rest for him at Erebor.

He had not forgotten what lay hidden behind those doors. Long had that land been besieged by foul creatures, and fouler still were tales of what lived deep within. He would not sacrifice the lives of those that accompanied him without cause, but he would see the glory of those halls restored, even if it was the last thing he did. He would request the king for permission, and he would set out then. He doubted that Dwalin would want to accompany him if he were not his brother. He had settled well into life at Erebor. He would not ask that of his brother. He would not take one more life down with him, knowing that Dwalin had died protecting his brother on a quest that was not his to undertake.

The request had been made, and Balin was surprised to see the number of young dwarves that had volunteered to accompany him. _The recklessness of youth_, he thought to himself. Even more surprised was he to see that Ori and Oín wanted to join him as well. He would not have wanted to part any more brothers as he and Dwalin would, but they would not be convinced otherwise. He knew his heart would rejoice at being in their company once more, but he had fears too, which he had kept thus far to himself. Ever since the battle, when Bolg had been slain, most orcs were said to have retreated to build their numbers before they terrorized other lands. He hoped the numbers would not overwhelm them, and believed that they would be safe if they made it far enough without much event. All that they had to do was remain alert for any signs of danger, and remain loyal to one another.

To Balin, the days before they left was the most agonizing of them all. It had been long since he had been uncertain of a decision that he was making. The dwarves had often counted him among the wise, but wisdom seemed to fail him now. He wondered if it had anything to do with the words he had shared with his brother. His brother had not been happy with his decision to leave without him. Time and again, the words returned to toy with his mind.

_Do I mean nothing to you that you wish to throw your life away soon after Durin's line has been broken?_

_You know not what you are getting into. Will you throw all those lives away for naught?_

_This is not courage, brother. This is not your salvation. It is folly!_

_What of when you reach Moria? What of when you succeed? Will you forget me then? Will you then be at peace?_

Every time, his courage faltered, but his will did not. He knew that this was the path for him. He tried to tell himself that Dwalin was only worried. Had he not felt the same before they had both decided to follow Thorin? Those days were now gone forever. The years were not being easy on him. He had done much in his lifetime, but this was his one chance to make it mean something more, and he would not thwart it. If fate willed it, he would die knowing that he had done his best. He had kept his brothers safe, and he had reclaimed their lost lands.

Months went into preparations and planning for their expedition, leaving a lot of time for the dwarves to reassure themselves that it was not too dangerous a mission. If it meant that there was one more dwarf haven on Middle-Earth, then it was well worth the trouble. If the Lonely Mountain could be reclaimed, then so could Moria. Farewells were quickly said among families. Younger dwarves hoped to join the leaving company some day while the elders simply reminisced the days of their youth. The day had come.

_We journey today to the great halls of our people, lads. Great feats and glory await us. Some day soon, dwarves will flourish there once more as like the days of old. Great trials we will face, and as much death will come to us as gold, but let it not be said that we wavered and quivered like the weak. Let it be said that the enemy trembled and fell before the dwarven blades. Let it be said that death did not deter us. Let it be said that Durin's folk prevailed! Let it be said that Moria was ours once more!_

As he stepped out of the gates of Erebor, he looked back one last time. This was the land they had fought to reclaim. This was the land that had raised him. This was the land that Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli died for. This was the land he would bring honour to, and the home he would leave behind. He turned one last time to his brother, unsaid words of farewell shared between them, for they both knew it was likely they would never meet again save in the realm beyond the living. He brought his battle axe close, and dipped his head as he reciprocated his brother's actions, and with one last gaze filled with love and longing, he was gone.


	8. If Only

**If Only...**

Summary*

**Imladris. The hidden valley that is the home of Lord Elrond. It is here that Bilbo Baggins now lives, though it has been long since he has known true peace. His heart worries for his nephew and only heir, Frodo. If only he had never taken the ring. Follow Bilbo's thoughts as he ponders his adventures, the lives it cost him,and what could have been...**

_Rivendell. Imladris. _The land was as fair as its name,both in the common tongue and the fair. This was the one place on Middle-Earth that would harbour him for as long as he desired. A place for weary travellers like him to rest, for weary he was. Before accepting Lord Elrond's invitation to stay, Bilbo Baggins had visited Dale and Erebor one last time just as he had desired, and yet, his burdens were no less heavy to bear upon his shoulders. It had not entirely given him the closure he sought. _No_. It had been much like the sapling that grew now at Bag End- a reminder of that which could have been. That which he could _never_ have, for it was now lost forever. War had stolen from him something far more precious than the treasure hoards of the dwarves. It had stolen his _family_. If only they had heeded Gandalf and waited at the Desolation of Smaug. If only they had never set off on the adventure to Erebor. If only the dwarves and the wizard had never found him for their fool's quest. They would have been without a home, but at least they would have been _alive_.

The day he'd left on the adventure had been seared into the deepest depths of his mind. He would _never_ forget it. He'd met Gandlaf that day,with no recollection of him but his fireworks. Perhaps the other hobbits _were_ right in a way. He was a meddlesome wizard,and a destroyer of peace. He had destroyed Bilbo's peace so that peace could be restored all across Middle-Earth, and thus,Bilbo did not begrudge his choices. Gandalf had always been a friend and ever will be. It was also the day he'd met the person whose death still bore him down. _Thorin Oakenshield. King Under the Mountain._ Nay, it had not belonged to him,the title he craved so much. He had gone before his time, leaving a gaping hole in Bilbo's life. He was so much more than just being their leader. He was their friend, family, and _hope_. Had he known that day that Thorin had been doomed to die,he would have done a lot many things differently. They may have parted in friendship, but that had not changed anything. He was ready to spare all the food in his house and the commodities in it a hundred times over if it meant that he could see Thorin one last time and tell him how much he'd mattered to him. He was ready to leave home and be reprimanded once more if it meant he could have that one last chance. _Fíli and Kíli_, the lads. They shouldn't have died either. The line of Durin had been broken that day, while he had hidden himself in the shadows, unknowingly empowering the enemy by bearing what was not his to bear. What he would give to hear the jests of the two lads who had welcomed him into their company with open arms. They, who had been groomed to rule Erebor as the heirs of Thorin, had been cut down in their uncle's defence, overseeing not the great stone halls but their tombs deep beneath instead. If only he could have saved them instead.

When he had arrived at Rivendell much later, it had been a balm for his aching heart. The Elven melodies soothed his disturbed soul, and for a time, the burden lifted off his shoulders. The lords of the house had been kind to him, and with their knowldege he had translated great many tales for his young heir. Ever did he listen to those lilting voices, believing that his journey had come to a happy end. Alas! It was not to be. Gandalf had arrived with grave tidings. The Shire was in danger, or particularly, _one_ hobbit was in danger. He was in great peril. Even as they had headed to the very sanctuary that sheltered him, he had been attacked and _wounded_. Not by any attacker, but by one of the _Nine_. He had been stabbed by a Morgul knife, a cursed blade drawn by servants who owed their loyalty to the Dark Lord alone. While he yet bore the wound on his shoulder, he was doomed to roam the lands as a lesser wraith.

The ring that had saved him that day had come back now, demanding its price. Isildur had paid with his life but this was worse, for it was a price too costly to pay. _A price of blood._ The blood of his heir and nephew. _Frodo_. A Fellowship had set out from Rivendell. Nine in number they had been to face the nine Nazgúl, yet what hope did they have against those neither living nor dead? A perilous task it had been for a full-grown warrior, but what they had sent instead was a wounded hobbit. He was no fool to hope that Frodo would ever return to him unharmed. It was now up to his innocent nephew to right the wrongs that he had done. He could only hope that the ring wouldn't do to Frodo what it had done to him. It had eaten away at his mind and control, making him crave for the power that it had brought him. It had driven him to madness, for madness it was, to have attacked Frodo for such a worthless trinket when he last saw him. He could only hope that he would see him one last time before death took him. A fool's hope, but hope nonetheless. It was with this vain hope that he continued to write the rest of his story, only, it would not have the ending he'd thought out for it. He would not live happily ever after to the end of his days. _No_. He'd live them out in waiting, and repentance. No longer did his songs grace the Hall of Fire as it once had. No longer was he seeking out company to distinguish his verses from that of the Dúnadan. Instead, he sat quietly, pondering over those very thoughts that pricked his conscience constantly, refusing to leave him. If only all this had never happened. If only he could do something about it._ If only_...


	9. The Tombs Beneath The Mountain

**The Tombs Beneath The Mountain**

Summary*

**Gimli has never known a loss so great until today. He has it heard his father speak of such days, when they had lost brothers and cousins he had never seen to battle. He had entered the Mines of Moria bubbling with enthusiasm to meet his uncle Balin whom he had not seen in a long while. Little does he expect to see what really lies in the place of those 'mines'- tombs.**

_Moria_. This was a land that generations of dwarves had fought for, to claim it from the hands of the enemy. It wasn't a small number of his kin that had been lost here. Not the least of all King Thror, father of Thrain, father of Thorin Oakenshield to whose company his father had once belonged. Much blood had been spilt so that his uncle Balin and his company of dwarves could set up a dwarven colony there. Gimli son of Gloin longed to meet his uncle once more. It had been too long and the lack of news had been disturbing in the least. Ori's skill in writing was being sorely missed, as much as, if not more than Balin's words if wisdom. In fact, the only other member of that company who continued to be of interest to the younger dwarves was Bombur. His inability to move himself, added to his 'skill' in growing wider each day was a constant source of amusement to them, as long as it wasn't them helping him around. Dwalin dealt mostly with the forging and fighting both of which were forbidden to the youngest of their kind. So lost was he in his memories of those days that he had almost lost track of all tidings that he had brought with him from the rest of the company back at Erebor. It wasn't long after that that he started regaling the rest of the Fellowship with tales of what lay ahead of them. If Gandalf was not going to enlighten them, busy as he was remembering the path he had long forgotten,he would gladly do so himself.

It was in such a jolly mood, brimming with anticipation and elation, that he finally stepped into the mountains of Moria. The fact that the doors were tightly sealed with dwarf runes did nothing to deter him. He payed no mind to the fact that the door was sealed with an elvish word. His axe, he wielded with deadly accuracy against the Watcher in the Water. Neither friend nor foe would stop him from entering the place he wished to see. It was for this reason that the massacre that had occurred at Moria was lost to him until it was revealed by his companions. Loathe was he to believe them, but little could he do to deny what was laid bare before him. Dwarves lay dead at his feet. Dozens of them strewn across the floors, shot down by arrows and cut down by enemy blades. His heart clenched at the though that he had not arrived to a court, but a tomb instead. Still, the Fellowship was young and hope yet lived within him that perchance, Balin had survived. With each step that he took further, that hope withered down slowly, but it was not gone. When at last they reached their destination, any hope he had left was crushed. He cast his hood over hus face. The façade crumbled. It _couldn't_ be. In the great halls stood a single tomb. They were supposed to have been received with a warm welcome, not with the silence of the dead. How came Balin son of Fundin unto his death? Evil indeed were the ones that had felled him. What strength did he have to tell Dwalin that his brother would never greet him ever again. What strength did he have to tell Nori and Dori that the youngest of them had perished? What strength did he have to tell his father that he alone lived of the two brothers? What strength did he have to gaze upon the solitary tomb that stood there without falling apart in grief?

Gimli cared not that his grief would not bring his uncle back from the dead. Pippin's folly could have attracted undue attention, they could be ambushed at that very moment for all he cared. He would not heed Legolas' warning yet, for if not now, when would he say his farewells? He could barely make out the voices in the background. They seemed to be reading something.

_We drove out orcs from the great gate and guard..._

_Flói was killed by an arrow..._

_Balin has set up his seat in the Chamber of Mazarbul...Balin Lord of Moria fell in Dimrill Dale...We cannot get out...The Watcher in the Water took Óin...The end comes..._

Ill were these tidings. If only that would rid him of this grief. It mattered not how his kin had been slain. His axe would avenge all those that lay there, even if he was the only dwarf yet standing there. It wasn't long before they were ambushed, but it was what Gimli had been waiting for. The enemy would taste the bite of his blade, and only when his kin were avenged would he be at peace. There were trolls and goblins amongst them,but it is not in the nature of a dwarf to cower in fear. They were as mighty as they are proud. They were offered a brief respite as the hoardes seemed to have retreated. For a moment, he was stunned to see that the ring-bearer had been impaled by the troll, but most of the worry dissipated upon seeing that Frodo was still alive and well. Who knew that hobbits were such a sturdy race? In fact, it had been quite amusing to see that Aragorn had very nearly dropped Frodo in surprise!

With great haste they made for the bridge of Kazad-dûm, and loathe was he to leave Balin's tomb yet,but they could not afford to tarry long. Little did he know that he would have to steel himself for yet another parting. Durin's Bane had awoken. The sound of drums resounded in the deep. Orcs and goblins had once.more started firing upon them, and for once, he was glad for the company of Elven kind. No sooner had he thought that they would yet make it out alive, Gandalf had told them to flee without him. A balrog was a foe beyond any of their skill. A powerful wizard was he, Gandalf, and yet none foresaw that the fire and shadow would consume him. So it was that they lost their leader and friend. The first loss of the Fellowship. A wave of sorrow crashed upon him once more. The Grey Pilgrim had abandoned them, and he was beyond their aid now. What now would become of them without their guide? What heinous crime had they committed for woe to befall them so? What wrong had been done that the fates punished them do? As they left the accursed mines, he knew he would never visit these lands again, for the grief would be too near. They no longer remained to him the great Mines of Moria. They were _tombs beneath the Mountain._


	10. In The Golden Halls

**In The Golden Halls**

*Summary*

**She is known by many names. She is a shield-maiden who has grown among great warriors. She is no stranger to grief for it has been a constant companion in her life. She has but one dream, yet it is thwarted time and again because she is a woman. What does she feel as she stands alone atop Meduseld, watching her brother and uncle ride out to battle?**

Her _eyes_. They say that eyes are the doorway to the soul, but even her eyes are cold and glint like steel drawn in the light of day. They are not the eyes of a young princess who has been sheltered all her life. _No._ They are the eyes of a silent warrior. A warrior who fights battles of the mind rather than battle with brute strength. They are the eyes of a woman who is no stranger to pain and grief. How can it be, when it has been her constant companion all her life, uninvited as it is?

Death has always trailed her even as a child. Her father had ridden out a mighty warrior and returned home a corpse, having been ambushed by orcs. She had been too young to remember much of him, but young enough to feel the void that his death left behind. The same year, she had lost her mother. She had seen but six summers, and to soon, the loving hand of her mother was forever stilled by death. Her aunt Elfhild had been gone long before her birth, and so it was that she grew up, her childhood lost too soon by the merciless will of fate.

It had been many years till she smiled once more, but even then, it never reached her eyes. They still sparkled and glimmered, but there was no joy in them. Théoden had raised her as his own daughter, and Théodred she had loved as she would her brother. It was not long before she grew up as a shield-maiden as her brothers did as warriors. She grew up listening to tales of valor. Would she one day find her place in them? No, she realized bitterly. Valor and glory was for the men who rode out to battle on their proud steeds. The women-_wives, mothers, sisters and daughters-_ would fade away, forgotten.

Then, there came the times of war. Her uncle, now a _king_ who held no power in his own halls. He was as powerless as she, if not more, bewitched by the ill counsel of Gríma, the one they called Wormtongue. She could do nothing but remain a silent victim of his demeaning gaze, as he chased after that which he was deemed unworthy of. She was alone in the very halls that had once been meant to protect her. What was worse, was that the same court which rendered justice to the people, would forbid her from protecting herself.

_Théodred! Oh, Théodred! _She had wanted to cry, and yet, she had no freedom to do so away from the lurking Wormtongue, and away from her plagued uncle. He had been her one hope in the halls whose gold seemed not to understand the sorrow that dwelt within. He was often out riding to rid their lands of the enemy, having been besieged by a traitor, but he had been there for her when she had needed him. He had been there when her brother could not. Now, she would see him no longer. It was not lost on her that he had been lost in much the same way as her father. Death had taken once more that which she had held dear. How many more would she lose?

As she roamed the halls as would a phantom, her thoughts wandered to her brother, Éomer. She had tried to tell herself time and again that he was a strong and capable warrior, and that he would return home as promised, but her father and her cousin had been no less skilled either. She feared more for his return to the Halls. He had been away for far too long to know that treason had its roots firmly established in the court. He would not take kindly to the worm, and blood would be spilt if ever he knew that Gríma pursued his sister. Her blood boiled with want for vengeance, but she would hold back. It was not a victory she could afford. Not at the cost of her brother.

She watched silently as her brother returned at long last. He was alive and well, although he too bore the burden, both of grief at their cousin's death, and of duty. She wondered, as did her brother, if their king was so far gone that he no longer cared to know the whereabouts of his kin? Did he know that his only son had been slain by vile mechanizations of which his silver-tongued councillor was part? Did he not realize that his sister-son was far more loyal to him than the worm could ever claim to be?

Her thoughts gave way to horror as she realized that Éomer was being sentenced to imprisonment. For treason no less! He had drawn his sword in defence of those he had sworn to protect, yet he would pay for that. She knew she could do nothing but watched. For a moment she had allowed herself to hope that her brother would put an end to that snake. She had seen it in his eyes, then. Now, she hoped for nothing, resigning herself to face a bleak future that held neither hope nor glory.

It had seemed to her that she could never stop hoping, no matter how hard she tried. It was not her nature to back down without a fight. It was how she had first met Aragorn. It was he who had held her back even as Gandalf had saved the king. She had fought him even then, believing her king to be in trouble, but his grip had been strong and unwavering. Éomer had been released soon after and she had been grateful for a while, but her joy was short-lived. Théoden and his men would ride to war, and she would be left behind to govern Meduseld in his absence.

Now, as she stood at the Gates of Meduseld, clad in white, she watched the men ride out. Was this to be her fate? To never draw a sword and waste away in the golden cages that claimed to protect her? Would she be forgotten just like the ladies before her while the names of her brothers and uncle lived on for ages to come? Will it be said of her that she did nothing but hide within the Golden Halls as the menfolk died in defence of their motherland? Is that all that would be said of her, that _in the Golden Halls, lived the White Lady?_


	11. To Honour An Allegiance

**To Honour An Allegiance**

Summary*

**In the movies, we all watched as the elves of Lórien marched to Helm's Deep, defending those walls with shield and body as many if them including Haldir fell to the enemy's blades. What were Haldir's thoughts as he left Lórien' peaceful borders?**

I miss the golden leaves of Lothlórien, and the quiet that seems so peaceful,yet never stifling. I miss the soft songs of the Nimrodel and the company of my brothers. Never did I think that I would leave the comforts of home behind to step into a world of men once more, but war was upon us, and if we did not leave home to fight, we would be left with neither home nor family to protect.

It all started with the coming of the Fellowship. The day they had arrived, weary from travel and grief. I had seen them while patrolling our borders, and had later been their guide to Caras Galadhon. I had seen them off as well as they faded into a small speck on the mighty Anduin, taking with them three boats of Elven make and the gifts that our lady bestowed upon them, but something had told me that I would see them once more, and I was not mistaken.

It had hardly been a few days since the Fellowship had set off from Lórien, and so soon, things had gone wrong. A great horn resounded three times, echoing across the lands. It was a mighty sound that belonged to neither orc nor elf. It was a cry for help, one warrior to another. We knew not what had happened, just that the enemy had attacked so close to our borders down the Anduin.

Not long after that day, the twin sons of Elrond had arrived bearing news for our lady. It was them who had first brought her word of the creation of a Fellowship, and their news must be dire indeed if they rode out themselves to bring word to their grandmother. It was revealed to us not long after what had been said. We would have to stand against the Two Towers now, and Lórien too would fight. A small company of our people would ride out to aid the Rohirrim while the others defened our home. As for the twins themselves, they would ride out to gather the Dúnedain to help their foster brother in any way they could.

The Lady had sent out word that those willing to leave Lórien, and if they could, the elves who spoke Westron, were to leave for the Mark. The Rohirrim already harboured great distrust towards our people, and it would do us more harm than good if we were to speak in our own tongue amongst them. Now was not a time to afford any miscommunications. We had a few weeks ahead of us to prepare for the journey. The Lady would not force any of us to join the elves leaving for the Mark, but each of us knew that it was important that we did so. Not many of us spoke the Westron tongue in the Golden Wood, and the more of us could help, the better.

It was not only about my ability to speak the tongue of men, though, that made me leave. I had seen the Fellowship myself, and the burdens each of them bore. Mithrandir may have been returned to them, but I knew it would not be enough. I had known that this day would come, and I will not let them down in their hour of need. Legolas too would welcome the company of his kin, and if my presence alone can offer them solace in these dark times, then I will not deny them.

It had been hard to part with my brothers. Harder than I ever thought it could be. I worried for them as any would in my stead. They were both incredible ellyn- Orophin and Rúmil- strong and wise. They had both proven themselves as capable warriors and I couldn't have felt more proud of my brothers, but it is a time of war. The Valar willing, we will all be safely returned to each other, but I would have felt better knowing that I would be there with them to protect them if need be.

Neither of them had been particularly pleased with my decision to leave, but they had understood nonetheless, and would not stop me. For once, it was as if I was the younger of the three, and the only one stepping out to fight the enemy. They insisted on packing my belongings for the journey- they knew what I would need and what I would take- and insisted on examining my weapons until both of them were satisfied that it was battle-ready.

When the time came for me to leave, no words were spoken between us. There was no need for them. Our eyes said it all, and we would spend those few precious moments just basking in the presence of the others, drinking in the sight our brothers, knowing that they were well. Even as we left our borders, I looked back one more time knowing that Orophin and Rúmil will be looking from afar, engraving the sight in my thoughts, and with that, I had left.

The journey had been a solemn one. It had felt so empty without the shades of the Mallorn trees. The lands were vast and plain,but even here, the destruction caused by the tainted hands of the enemy could not be overlooked. Tonight, blood would be shed, both ours and the enemy's. Isengard would be emptied and the horns of war will be blown. The armour that we wear bears down upon us, but every single one of us will fight to the end.

We reached the stone walls of the Hornburg soon enough, and even from afar, it was plainly obvious that the men were drawn thin in defence of the fortress. Not all of them were fighters. Some had seen too many fighters, and the others too few. All that stood between them and total annihilation was us- the Elven hosts from Lórien and Rivendell.

I lifted the horn and blew it once, signalling our arrival. The king would know that their unexpected allies had arrived. Being among the few that knew the tongues of men, I stepped forward and said as my superiors had bade me speak.

"_I bring word from Lord Elrond of Rivendell: An alliance once existed between elves and men. we fought and died together. We come to honour that allegiance. We are proud to fight alongside men once more."_

Aragorn rushed forward and clasped me by the arm even as he embraced me. Even if he had not said the words that he did, his eyes spoke volumes of the gratitude that he felt. Legolas too was beaming, and at that moment, it was worth it. I had come to honour an allegiance- to my home, my people, the Lord and the Lady, and my friends. If I never went home after today, I would still know that I had done my duty well. That Haldir, Marchwarden of Lóthlorien, had given it all_ to honour an allegiance._


	12. Farewell, My King!

**Farewell, My King!**

Summary*

**Battle is raging. Men are going to battle, never to return. They will fight for the free people of Middle-Earth. They will fight for their honour. They will fight for their king, but what happens when that king is slain during battle. What will happen to the hope of his men? Rather, what will happen to the hope of that man who now bears the burden of kingship? Will he lead his men to victory, or to death, now that he is now alone, with his king and uncle dead, and his only sister's death is imminent? What will he do, knowing that war is now futile, with nobody to return to?**

It was a day nobody wanted to see. The day that the women dreaded, for fear their men would never return. It was evening now. The Pelennor Fields were strewn with carcasses. Orcs, Uruk-Hai, Men, horses. All of them alike, now lay on the ground, entirely still. The only comfort to them would be that of the hard, bloodied earth. The only sounds they would hear henceforth, would be that of the birds of prey. Those who fought to defend their land were now gone forever, in all but legend. Their valour, and their names would be remembered by none, save their families. They had rallied to their King. The king of Rohan, King Théoden, son of Thengel. They had rallied to the Heir of Isildur, but this day, Rangers, and the Rohirrim met their ends as one. As heroes. A very small portion of the soldiers lived to see the next day. They lived to see a new King. King Théoden was no more. He had joined his ancestors in their great halls, leaving his sister-son behind, to continue his legacy.

It had been like any other battle, for Éomer. He was a leader. Third Marshall of the Riddermark. He couldn't afford to show any weakness, even though he knew that the pain of seeing his men fall was too much to bear during a battle. Every-time they fell, he knew they were dying for _him_, but he was wrong. This battle, he had lost _everything_. He hadn't led his people into battle. Aragorn had, but he was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't taken on the Nazgûl, and sacrificed himself for his king. He couldn't even protect his sister. All he had told her was to stay safe in the Golden Halls of Meduseld, and yet, he should have known that she would never agree with him on that matter. She was Rohan's Shield Maiden, but first, to him, she was his sister, and yet, he had failed in his duty. Not as a king, but as a brother. The fair lady had fought the Witch King all alone, with the help of but an inexperienced hobbit. One whom he held no faith in. The one who he thought would desert him in battle. He had been proven wrong yet again. He had made a grave mistake in not trusting the two of them, and that was going to cost them their lives. They were still lying on the battlefield, pale and cold. Éomer would have fought unto death, but it was not his decision to make. He couldn't leave his people leaderless. It wouldn't be called a sacrifice. It wouldn't be called bravery. It would be called treason. _Betrayal_. He was a king,and he would have to lead them like one. Now, as he rode into battle, accepting his fate, memories of his past flooded his mind. Memories that he would relive one last time, before the battle led him to meet his loved ones once again.

It was at least a decade ago. He was but a kid, looking out for his little sister. His father was leaving for battle. His sister was crying, for her mother was too, but little Éowyn knew not why. Her father Éomund was in his battle gear. He had just bidden Lady Théodwyn goodbye. He rode off on his tall horse, leaving his family anxious for news of the battle. He had been a fierce warrior, but too reckless, and loyal. That loyalty had proved fatal to him. He never came back that day, nor any day since. His horse came back riderless. A warrior, who would have come back home to a caring wife and adorable little children now lay buried deep within the earth, his weapons placed beside him, for he would never hold them again. Within no time, his mother was gone too. She was no elf, and yet, it was grief that caused her death. Éomer was orphaned, and so was his little sister. It was too much for her to take. She was too little to understand. He was painfully reminded of the fact that it was the last day he had seen her smile. SHe knew no true joy ever since. It was one thing he could never give her, no matter how hard he tried.

It was soon after their parents' death, that his uncle had taken them in. He took care of them as a father would. He loved and raised his sister's children as his own. They lived with their cousin Théodred,who loved them as a brother. Alas! Even that bit of happiness wasn't meant for a warrior like him. Fate was cruel. Too cruel for anyone to accept. Too soon was their cousin snatched away from them. Théodred met a warrior's death, but death no less. He was mortally wounded when they found him, but even the best of their healers could do nothing. The damage had been done, and he closed his eyes, one last time. Once again, a loved one lost to the jaws of time, and the cruel claws of death. The friend they could always trust, was lost to them. Their beloved cousin had left them behind. _Théodred was dead._

Not long after the death of his beloved cousin, he had lost his uncle. Not to death, as one might imagine, but to a traitor. A snake disguised as a well-wisher. A silver tongued worm. _Gríma Wormtongue. _His uncle had changed, and not very much for the better. Gríma had terrible intentions towards his sister. It was one thing to be a traitor, but a man who dared harm his sister did not deserve to live. She was now a Shield Maiden of Rohan, not to be trifled with, and yet the man wouldn't let go. Éomer had only spoken about it to his uncle. The one he thought cared for his sister as his life, but he was wrong. He was banished for trying to protect his people from the clutches of Saruman. Those loyal to Rohan undertook exile,and called themselves the Éorlingas. His own people were now divided. Should a battle arise, the Rohirrim would now kill each other till none were left but darker forces. He had to leave his people. _He had no other choice._

Then, there was one last memory. One that he hoped he'd rather not carry with him. It was the last he would ever have of his little sister. He hadn't known then that it was her, but he would rather acknowledge it now than never. They were the memories of seeing her fight as Dernhelm. He had first seen her upon the battlefield as they rode out to bring down the oliphaunts, and those riding atop them. He had seen her scream with all the might she had, as she proceeded to bring down one of them before he brought down some more, with his allies trying to bring down the rest of them. What really caught his attention, though, was not her first kill, but when she took on the Witch-King himself. She had defended a man who was like a father to him, and for that, he was grateful. With a final strike, she had brought him down. It was she who had brought an end to the reign of a once-mighty king. One whose pale face, if it could ever be seen by the living, was now contorted in deep agony. He had left it at that, not bothering to see what happened to the warrior later. He had more pressing concerns as Marshall on the battlefield. How he regretted that now. What worth was all of Rohan to him when all those he had cared about had forsaken him for the afterlife? True, he had his subjects, but even they wouldn't last much longer with the dark forces caving in all around them. There was no one to return to. He would have to wait an eternity to see them once more, if this battle did not see it done.

With difficulty, he pushed aside any other memories that threatened to return to him. This was a battle. He couldn't afford to get distracted, especially when they were terribly outnumbered. Plenty of lives depended on him. Lives of men he hoped would live to see another day, even if he did not.The Corsairs of Umbar had just arrived. Suddenly, where the enemy should have been, he found his friend. Aragorn. He was _alive_, and he had brought back an army. Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth was there too. Side by side, they fought with renewed hope, and the battle was won at the cost of blood. Aragorn and he had escaped unscathed.

_Aragorn_.

"_The hands of a king are the hands of a healer."_ Those were the prophesied words.

_Perhaps, there was still some hope left._


	13. When All is Lost Save Hope

**When All is Lost Save Hope**

Summary*

**Hobbits. They're a happy people, living as one with nature. Oblivious to the pains of the world around them, fenced well within their own. They lived a simple, yet happy life, but life has never been easy for Samwise Gamgee. Not since he set out on a quest with his master, and companion, Frodo Baggins. One he had promised to protect, but what happens when he's harshly pushed away from all that he's ever known? Follow Sam's thoughts as he is faced with a harsh reality: Frodo doesn't want him there anymore, rather choosing to send him back home. What does Sam go through when Frodo decides to journey ahead with Sméagol instead?**

It felt like it had been an _eternity_. An eternity since he had felt the pleasures of _home_. The pleasures of being but a simple gardener, whose major concerns were as simple as grabbing the attention of the girl he'd been eying: Rosie Cotton. Worst of all, it had been an eternity since he'd felt _safe_. Many a times, he wondered if his world would ever come to be that way again. Not just _his_ world, but Middle-Earth in all its entirety. Now, as he felt his life slowly draining out of him day by day, bit by bit, he highly doubted it. No. The world had changed, and so had the ones in it. He now lived in a world where 'friends' would choose a cold-blooded murderer over the ones that shed their life-blood in service to one who could never hope to repay them in kind. Yes, that's exactly what Gollum was. _A cold-blooded murderer_. He didn't miss that haunted look in Frodo's eyes when he told him to go back home. There was no grief, and no regret. Those dreadful moments played time and again in his mind, cruelly trying to change his decision. The decision to go back for his master and friend to Mount Doom. The decision to walk into that fiery chasm knowing he may never get a chance to come out alive. That memory still returned unbidden. Why was he doing this? Frodo had made it very clear to him that he was no longer wanted. That he could be dead for all that mattered, and it still wouldn't bother him.

_Their supplies. They were gone. Their lembas, the only thing close to food, that they'd been managing on. Their one source of rejuvenation to continue their long journey to a place no one would dare, save the servants of the enemy. Mordor. Their water was nearly gone too. All gone overnight. Lost without a trace, but one. A trail leading right up to him. Bread crumbs all over his cloak. To those that didn't know him any better, he would have easily looked to be the thief. The culprit. Him, not Gollum, whom he knew without a doubt was the one behind this. After all, he had caught Gollum red handed once, but that wouldn't stop Frodo from casting all blame on him. Yes, the one he had trusted with his life, had turned his back on him. "Go away Sam. Go home."_

He could have turned around and gone his way, but he had promised. Gandalf was gone, and soon he too would perish, but he would honour his promise. No matter _what_ it took him.The memories were seared into his mind, they would never leave him, no matter how hard he tried, and he knew it was better that way.

_The day he had left the Shire. He knew it was a mistake, but he'd done it anyway. He was loyal to a fault, and now more than ever, he knew that it would sooner get him killed than help him. He had packed his belongings for but a small journey. He made no farewell. He hadn't bothered to tell old Gaffer. No, he hadn't approached even Rosie before he left to do what Gandalf had asked of him. Little did he know that he may never come back. All he knew then was that he had to protect Frodo with his life, if it came to it, and that they were leaving to Bree. It had never occured to him that Gandalf's words were true in every sense. He had to protect Frodo with his **life**. That was the first time he had stepped away from home. They had hardly walked a few hours, when they were joined by Peregrin 'Pippin' Took. Of course, they met Meriadoc 'Merry' Brandybuck later, and what he would give to see them once again. He only hoped they had made it past the ambush alive. After all, their fate hadn't gone easy on them ever since they left the Brandywine Bridge together. Trouble followed them soon after, for neither the Dark Lord Sauron, nor the Nazgûl were to be trifled with. They had barely escaped with their lives, to Bree. He had succeeded in keeping Frodo alive, even if only for a few days._

_Those were days when there was yet hope of finding peace and safety somewhere. He was but a naive hobbit, who knew naught of the cruel world around him. It was at Bree that he met Strider, or Aragorn, as he later came to learn. He could almost laugh at his actions that day, if only it didn't force him to face the reality he had now come to see. That day, he had threatened the one man he could have trusted with his life._

Now, as he walked back, despite every fibre of his being pleading him to turn around, he found himself slowing his pace, each step weighing heavier than the one before. If anything happened to Frodo, he knew that guilt would never spare him. It would kill him too soon. He had come quite close to losing Frodo once, at Weathertop, and he _couldn't_ let it happen again. He stopped, not knowing which way to go. It was agonizing to go any further knowing he was dooming Frodo to a gruesome end through Gollum. Finally, he turned back the way he came. He would _go back._ Frodo may not have need of him, but _he_ needed Frodo to be safe. He stumbled across the dead lands hoping he wasn't too late. There was no sign of Frodo as far as he could see. It wasn't long before he stood before Mount Doom itself. The tall and imposing figure of Orthruin could no longer deter him from the path he had set out for himself. He was still ready to forgive. His relief at seeing Frodo unharmed, though, was not to be. Not soon after, he caught sight of Gollum sneaking upon Frodo, with every intent to kill him, and claim for himself, the _Precious_. This was it. This was where it all ended. With no further hesitation he attacked the foul creature. Frodo hadn't even turned around to see him. With silent resignation, he fought Sméagol with all that he had left. As they tumbled down together, struggling to no end to get the better of the other, he could only hope that Frodo would come back to him having destroyed the ring, and all this wouldn't be futile. After all, there wasn't much more he could do _when all is lost save **hope**._


	14. The Crown's Price

**The Crown's Price**

Summary*

**One enchanting book. Three great parts. A mighty tale is The Lord of the Rings. After the War of the Ring, is the dawn of the Fourth Age. The Age Of Men.****As King Elessar stands atop the White City after his coronation, a great many thoughts come unbidden, not least of all the perilous journey that has been, and the lives that have been lost. At the foreground of these thoughts is doubt, but more so, a new hope for the free peoples of Middle-Earth.**

At long last, he had achieved what he had set out to do. He had stayed true to the elven name that had been bestowed upon him as a child. He had fulfilled a part of the duty that had been destined for him. He had reclaimed his birthright as had been expected of him. He had held his word, and done as had been asked of him by his father in all but blood, Lord Elrond. His sword had cut through his enemies, and his standard flying high, he had restored peace upon Middle-Earth, having rendered the hopes of men fruitful. The city was bustling with the preparations for an oncoming celebration, and the shadow of despair was slowly but surely being dispelled. Smiles and laughter could be seen upon the faces of the people, their eyes still holding grief beyond comprehension, but also a small sparkle of joy nonetheless. They say the war is over. They say that all is well once more. Yet, as he stood upon the white walls of stone, why did it feel like he had lost much more than he had won? Why did the silver crown that gleamed upon his head feel more like a burden than a reward for the years of toil?

_The crown._ It had taken so many lives to acquire it. So much blood had been spilt for something so small. It had stolen his father from him. Would the orcs have killed him, had he not had a right to that crown? Would his mother still have lived a young widow's life? Would those many children have grown up fatherless, had it not been for that crown? It was that crown that had haunted Denethor's final days, as he refused to give up his stewardship. Was his own life worth that adornment? How many good men had he led to death, most of them not knowing who their leader was, so that someday, someone would be seen wearing that crown proudly upon his person? Every death that he had seen weighed heavily on him. He had been born into a time of war, but like any good human, the death of his own continued to haunt him. It is never easy for a warrior to absolve himself of the cost of his victories. All those good men had trusted him with their lives and hopes. Some he had loved as brothers and friends, the others he had hardly known. Would they have followed him as they had, had they known his true identity, or would they have felt betrayed by him for not owning up to a title he had been born with?

Two princes had been lost in the battle. A king and a steward as well. A princess and three halflings had come so close, and he knew he could have prevented that. He had been there as Boromir died. The others had come later, but it was only he who stood beside the son of Denethor as his last breath left him. He had heard the horn blowing. Thrice it had called, and then blown in rapid succession, a note of desperation joining in with the booming sound, only to be cut off abruptly. He had fought his way to Boromir, but he was too late. _My King! _Boromir had called him as he had died. Had he not failed to protect the Steward-Prince then? They had not had the time to lay him at rest either. The Falls of Rauros had taken him. Faramir had heard the horn that fateful day, and seen his brother dead. Could he have spared such wanton pain? He was a ranger. Could he not have found a faster way to Boromir? If he'd reached sooner, at least the son of Gondor would not have been beyond healing. He may have spared the two halflings their capture. Strong as they might be, such innocents of the Shire should never have been subjected to cruelty. Then of course, there was Éowyn. It had been neither her fault nor his that she had given her heart to someone whose own heart was no longer his to keep. Yet, could he have stopped her from such recklessness? Had his words spurred her to throw her life away as she faced the leader of the Nine? She had fought the Witch King to defend her uncle, but even he knew that it was not the same intention she had as she rode into battle. Would Éowyn and Merry have suffered from the malady if it hadn't been for his words?

On the same day, he had lost Halbarad too. A man he had grown up with. A man who had willingly followed him to the battlefields knowing that he would meet his end there. A man who had heeded the call of his king knowing what fate awaited him. _Death_. He had followed out of his love and respect for Aragorn, but also because of his duty to that crown. How many men had gone to an early grave, their only folly being their duty to that crown? Even his own two brothers had not been spared by it. He had parted them from the sister they had raised from an elfling. He had inevitably been the reason they had to choose between their sister and their parents. Had it not been for that crown, he would have known himself unworthy of pursuing her. Had it not been that crown that had given him hope? Hope that had led him to cause so much pain to a father and brothers who had loved him as one of their own? They loved him as much as he loved them, if not more, and they cherished Arwen. They would forgive them just to see them happy, but would he forgive himself? Sometimes, he still wondered if it had been better had Arwen sailed west. Would he want her to give up the immortality of the Eldar and sunder her from the rest of her family in the name of love?

Nay. Now more than ever, he had to hold on to the ray of hope. Not for the rest of Arda, but for himself. Arwen had loved him unconditionally to have waited so long braving the darkness. She had made the choice herself. Seeing the pride in the faces of the elves he knew as family told him that if there was one way to make it up to them, it would be to keep the love of his life safe and happy, and he would cherish her all the same for as long as he lived. The Age Of Men had dawned upon them. The White Tree would flourish once more as would the rest of Middle-Earth. He would lead them once more as their king, and joy and prosperity shall be found once more. The bonds of friendship that had been forged during times of darkness would never be forgotten, and in such times, he would still remember the price they had paid for it all. A price paid in blood. _The Crown's price._


	15. Son of My Heart

**Son of My Heart**

Summary*

**As a child of men he had first arrived. A son of his heart was he when he sat out at last. Elrond is bound to take young Aragorn into his home as he had been doing for all those descended of his long deceased twin Elros. Raising the young boy who has just lost his father, he had never expected the boy would become like one of his own. Follow Aragorn's life through the eyes of one of the wisest elf lords of Middle-Earth - Lord Elrond.**

_Estel_. Hope, I had called him that day, never knowing how true it would come to be. It had been but an obligation as it has always been with the heirs of Isildur. An obligation not to them, but to Elros,my other half. My _brother_. The day I adopted him, one may even say it had been an obligation to Middle-Earth, for I had known that he was destined for something _more_. We elves have never had much to do with the ways of men. We would but teach the heirs of Isildur what they needed to know, but one look at little Estel, and I knew I would do much more to protect the hope that lit his eyes, innocent to the workings of the cruel world closing in on him. That child had kindled in me the urge to love and cherish him like I would my own children. Now, as I wait to bid my foster son farewell one last time, my memories remain proof that it could never have been any different. Even if Estel has brought me much pain, I cannot deny that the _man_ was worthy.

_Word had reached that the twins were returning to Rivendell after their hunt. If not for a strong sense of foreboding, my heart would have felt immeasurable joy. With Arwen living in the care of her grandmother, it was rare that I found any of my children at home. Elladan and Elrohir had been travelling far and wide to quench their thirst for vengeance, seldom stopping by at the hidden valley. They never stayed long, and every moment that I got with them, I cherished as only a father would. Soon enough,I watched as my sons rode into their home. They were hasty, I noted, as if in dire need to save a life. I hoped that my vision had not come to pass, but it was becoming all to clear that it was a fool's hope. Following the twins came a woman with a tear streaked face, a little child bundled up in her arms. **Gilraen** , I realised, upon seeing the face of the young widow. In her young face I beheld all those emotions that I had seen in the mirror soon after Celebrían had sailed. I would shelter them, at least till they were well enough to fend for themselves._

I still knew not what made me accept the child that day. Had I been reminded of my own helplessness as the sons of Feänor adopted my brother and I, or was it because I saw it as a way to repay them? Perhaps it had been the child itself, after all. His little face had dried tear marks crawling down in streaks, more due to seeing his mother's tears, and leaving his home without his father. When his face was clearly revealed to me at long last, the boy having gradually overcome his bashfulness, I was surprised to find those innocent eyes sparkling with curiosity and hope, or maybe, I had taken him in it to see that gleam in my sons' eyes when they fondled him. Whether it was that hope, or _my_ own to find the company of a little one, that led to the course of events, I would never know. Aragorn's growing up had been but the blink of an eye to an elf, being mortal as he was, but every part of it remains engraved in my memories.

One of the very first had been seeing the child learn for the first time the true meaning of death. Having lived with his fathers dissapearances for hunts or patrols, he had been content with his mother's coddling, but it was clear as day that it would not last long. I had been there when it had all come crashing down. Gilraen seemed to be reaching the end of her patience with her son while Elladan seemed to have been teasing his brother, Elrohir or Estel I did not know, when I stopped by to have a word or two with his sons. It was not often that even an Elven Lord like myself had time off my duties, especially in trying times with a growing darkness that seemed always to linger. Mayhap my presence had reminded the boy of what he had forgotten for a while, for the question that followed was one that we had long dreaded. Judging by the way Gilraen froze, he had asked for his father. She was a strong woman. She had not shed a single tear, carefully explaining to her child that his father was lost to him forever. Elladan and Elrohir consoled him along with his mother, for they knew too well what it meant to lose one who held a place so special in their hearts. It wasn't me that consoled him then, having gone my way soon after, but as fate would have it, I found him once more that night. Having strolled into the garden that had once belonged to Celebrían, ensnared by those memories, I had least expected to be met by a child with a tear-streaked face, huddled in a small corner. When I approached him, a vortex of multiple emotions appeared on his face- reluctance to trust, embarrassment at having been found, a struggle to appear strong and to hide the tears, pain and fear. _He misses his father dearly, much more than he is willing to show. _That night, I held him close, stroking his hair as he fell asleep, promising safety and love, my own grief long forgotten.

I had seen the little boy adore my own two sons, seeking them out whenever he was released from his mother's grasp. Given the boy's contagious enthusiasm, it was no wonder that they obliged. For a time, it seemed to me that Imladris had been drawn out of the shadow of Celebrían's passing by naught but a single child, and that in itself meant much. In the years that followed, I watched as Estel came to be accepted by the twins like a brother. They would comfort him when he was hurt, tend to him when he returned with scrapes and bruises, and humour his pursuit of their attentions. Any insecurities he had about being a mortal among the peerless elves were washed away by their reassurances. In a way, it was them who catalysed my own decision to care for Estel as my own. The child had a mother, and perhaps two brothers now. What the child had lost with the death Arathorn son of Arador, I would give- _the love of a father_. It was not long before Estel learned to wield both blade and tongue. He had been progressing well in both scholarly and martial pursuits. He was no longer a boy, but a _man_. It was time he was told of his heritage. It wouldn't be wise to keep it any longer, for I knew that it was the boy's destiny to perform great deeds like his forefathers. I could only hope that Estel too would not fall to blade or folly like they had. It was high time _Estel_ became _Aragorn_ son of Arathorn, and heir to the throne of Gondor.

He took the news of his heritage surprisingly well. Having learnt much at Rivendell, he had always held a peculiar fascination for the ways of the Dúnedain, and had often fancied being one of them. His only reluctance had been to lead the way as a king. The Ring of Barahir and the Shards of Narsil he now wore proudly upon his person, yet they were his burden too. Sometimes, I couldn't help but rue that day for what it had cost me. Arwen, my beloved daughter was returning home to me. That day had changed everything, and I knew, though for long I hoped against it, that her heart was no longer hers to keep. If I had any doubts, Aragorn's face had given it all away. Alas, Arwen had come not only into Lúthien's looks, but her fate as well. Aragorn had not been mistaken to address her as Tinúviel. I watched helplessly as he fought on as Thorongil in the South, and pledged his service to Denethor, rejoining his people to do what it took to claim my daughter's hand in marriage- the throne of Gondor to which he was the heir. Soon, his betrothal to her at Lothlórien followed, driving the wedge further between father and son, but it had all fallen away the day he had returned to find that his mother no longer awaited him at their haven, but rather in lands that could only be reached by those who no longer walked amongst the living. I had by no means forgiven him for hurting me so, I still cannot in all entirity, but I could not sit idly by when he hurt, unable to show anything beyond the façade of a grown warrior.

The times during the trying shadow I am still loathe to recollect. War was raging, and it was becoming clear to me that perchance not even one of my children would live on with me, if I did indeed survive. I had strived hard to force the choice of immortality upon Arwen. Aragorn had asked her to sail too, with a heavy heart, knowing too well that he may never return to the Evenstar. It was all I could do, knowing that I could never wish ill will upon Estel's already doomed quest. I was plagued with worry, stretched across many fronts between defending the valley, concealing Vilya, and looking out for my children. Arwen had made her choice and the life of the Eldar was already leaving her bit by bit. If Aragorn did not succeed where his forefathers had failed, I would lose not one, but two of my children. Untold joy filled me when news came of the fall of Sauron. All three of my sons would come home to me, one of them finally come unto his own, every bit the worthy man I had wanted him to be. Elladan and Elrohir had taken Arwen's choice hard, but they did not forbid it. Their own choice,they would make when the time came. With the passage of trying times, I knew then that I would have to accept her choice too. I would not deprive her of the love and happiness that await her, just as they await me now across the sea.

All is well now, though the pain of parting will soon be upon me. There is much hope for the future. Much hope for the Age of Men, but it is not my part to see it through and guide them. As a bearer of The Ring Of Air, I must sail west, where the burdens will be lifted off my wearied shoulders, but it is not easy. Forever will Estel and Arwen be sundered from me by the vast seas. Not until the end of the world will I see them once more. Arwen would never be reunited with the loving mother who awaited her. It would be a final farewell, and a part of me would remain lost forever. In finding a part of me with Celebrían across the sea, I would lose another. Of my own sons, I do not know what they would choose. They have all grown up to choose the immortal lives of the Eldar, but would they willingly part from the little sister they had seen from the very moment she entered the world? I can only hope that their choices can wait till then. I would wish no more pain upon their already burdened souls. They will accompany me to the ships before I am parted from them,while Aragorn and Arwen will part sooner as is custom. It is time now to bid goodbye to my daughter and my son. Yes. My son he will always be. _The son of my heart._


	16. Namarië, Estel!

**Namarië, Estel!**

Summary*

**The time they had dreaded has come to pass. The life of their little brother is coming to an end, and with it, their hopes for a joyous and peaceful future.**

She is our sister, and he, our brother. Both of them we would defend to our last breath if need be. Both are much younger than we are, and yet it is them who will pass into legend while we yet linger. Why was it _our_ fate to suffer so, when we have spent all our life ridding the lands of the enemy, not only in vengeance, but protecting those who could not afford to defend themselves? The only mercy we had been granted was that the two of us remain together. We have never been parted, and never will be. We are two parts of a whole, and his choice shall be mine, and likewise. We would never survive making the choice that _Ada_ and uncle did, their choice having parted them by a distance that could never be overcome. Our mother, Celebrían, we lost to the vile orcs. Our father now awaits us across the sea. It is only Estel and our sister who remain, _but not for much longer_. Word had reached us at the quickly waning haven at Rivendell. Death was knocking at Aragorn's door. We can only hope that mortality is truly the gift of men, for it brings much pain to us who survive. Such pain the likes of which we would never wish upon any of our kind, let alone my kin.

Having reached Minas Tirith with great haste, we cared not for the formal welcomes that came with our titles as the Lords of Rivendell. Arwen rushed to us immediately having heard of our arrival. She looked every bit the queen she was, appearing strong for her people, but our sister can never hide anything from us. It took only the privacy of our chambers for her to break down into silent tears that refused to stay hidden any longer. We knew better than to fear that the worst had come to pass so soon, but the lives of men are so fragile, unlike the Eldar. Anything can change with the blink of an eye. '_He is resting now_' she said quietly answering our unspoken question. We had arrived much after the sun had retreated beneath the horizon, but such matters can never wait for the light of day. We could not afford to wait for the hope that a new dawn brought with it, when our own Estel himself inched closer to death. Arwen knew as well as Aragorn that he would not see the sun set tomorrow, for with the sun, he too would be gone. Legolas and Gimli were there too. Of us who had gathered to see Aragorn one last time, It was perhaps only Legolas who will truly feel the void that Aragorn will leave behind the way we did, in a way different from Arwen, as he was a brother who would shed every last drop of his blood for us as we would for him.

It was dawn soon, and we headed back to Estel's chambers, the silence hanging heavy in the air with unspoken words. We had reached there too soon, and too late at the same time if it were ever possible. The man who lay on the bed was so different, yet every bit the same as our little brother. Even so close to the end, his strength slowly leaving him, he was neither helpless nor weak. He had become wise with the passage of time, but wisdom was not the only thing that shone in his eyes. They were still as bright as the day they had been when we had first seen him, even now swirling with many emotions- unbidden joy at our reunion, a steely glint speaking volumes of challenge, a silent plea for forgiveness, a hidden strength, unconditional love, sorrow for the parting he could not avoid forever, but what surprised us the most was that gleam of hope that yet remained in the face of adversity. _This_ was our brother. We spoke as we had not in a long while, straining to stop the grief from flowing into any of our voices, pretending for a while that we were still the young brothers at Rivendell, all hale and hearty, living a life of joy and, as was common for little ones of Estel's age, mischief. It was almost as if the hope lingered that ignoring the signs of death would make it go away. We spoke of memories that had seemed just that back then, but now felt like a lifeline that was fast slipping from our grasp. It felt like it had only been a few years past the day when we brought that little boy back home, soon accepting him as one of us. It had felt only a few years past since we comforted the boy whose tears streamed like a waterfall of sorrow and grief, when he had learnt that his father would never return to him. It could not have been so long since that little child had come to us, feeling proud of having bested his first opponent in a duel, or after being praised by one of the many elf-lords that tutored him. Nay, it had been so long without our knowing it, and now, a sapling that we had seen sprouting its first leaves had grown, flowered, and was now withering away.

We had all walked out for a while save only Arwen and her children. They deserved to say their own farewells without prying eyes and ears. Soon, hearing Arwen's increasingly desperate pleas told us that it was time to face the bitter truth. Slowly, we went back in. In silence we stood, holding Aragorn's other hand,willing unto him our strength, to face the inevitable; lost in our own memories of the past, with only Arwen clinging onto Estel's nearly lifeless hand as prayer after prayer, plea after plea left her. It was her chocked sob that anchored us back to a reality we would rather not face. _Namarië Estel_, we whispered softly, for hope had left us side by side with the man who had been named after it. It is a sad irony, is it not, that the man we had named Estel, _our hope,_ was the one to snatch it away from us? This day hence, we knew that any hope that our sister would remain with us for eternity was lost forever, was gone with Estel. The love that they shared would not be kind to her henceforth. We knew she would not survive long without him, even as she sobbed brokenly, the way she had only once before- when we lost our _Naneth_. We still held her now, as we did when she was yet an elfling. This was one last mercy granted to us- to be able to hold each other as brothers and sister, maybe one last time, before death drew us apart. We stayed there a while, both of us holding her close, encircled in our arms. Then, she rose. She was not the only one who needed comforting. She went to her children. Her daughters she held close, soothing them as a mother would even in grief, but Eldarion would need her more. A tear or two tumbled down escaping the stranglehold, but perhaps, it was he who needed his mother most. Someone who would understand his burdens even without the tears. Someone who would feel his pain as her own. As silently as we came, we walked back. We only had each other, and together, we too would grieve in silence one last time. Arwen would need our strength henceforth, and we would gladly give her every last bit of it. For now, it was only the two of us, Elladan and Elrohir, saying our goodbyes to the child that had found a special place in our hearts. _Namarië, Estel._


	17. Hither You Go, Thither I Follow

**Hither You go, Thither I Follow**

Summary *

**Their Fellowship has been irrevocably broken. The hope that had held them together was now lost for all eternity. Faced with a decision he cannot bear to make yet, Legolas finds his answer from the place he least expects to find them- from the source of his doubts.**

_A promise._ Never had I imagined that a broken promise could hurt me so. I had promised you that I would follow you anywhere, had I not, _Estel_? What more can I do now, when you leave me like this _mellon_? What more can I do when you have left me behind, to a place I cannot follow you to, try as I might? Our enemies had trembled before us as we drew our blades together, my _friend_, but against death, I alone stand now, and without you, I have not the strength to face him, much less snatch you away from his cruel grasp. What was this 'gift' that was offered to you, my _king_, for it must have been great indeed to chose it over my company. I hope you are at peace and find enough joy for the both of us, my _brother_, for with you, a part of me will always remain. Your path was made clear to you, dear _ranger_, but even the eyes that you had often praised cannot make my path clear to me. It has been a while since you left us, _son of Arathorn_, forbidding any of us from coming with you. I can no longer follow you Estel, but there is one I would follow still.

I stand overlooking the stone walls of the city you loved so much _Aragorn_, not the trees that I had loved so. The stone walls remind me of the person they protected. _You_, mellon, they remind me of you. The trees no longer sing to me as they did so lovingly before. They remind me of the adventures we undertook beneath their boughs, and they remind me of another who will soon be parted from me. No, dear friend, it is the sea which calls to me now. The gulls cry out to me, seeking to welcome me home, yet how can I bear to leave behind all those that need me? Arwen yet grieves Estel, and so do your children. It will not be easy for any of them, yet they have Elladan and Elrohir. All is not lost to them, yet who have I who is as torn as I to make a choice Aragorn? I promised you that I will look after your kin, and I will do so as long as I they wish, but what of our companion Aragorn, the one who would not leave us despite all odds? I told you that I would sail west after you were gone Aragorn, but now I see that I can not do so, for even the soothing tunes of the sea will bring me no peace. I linger yet in your city, and with your brothers I speak. Do you remember the day we first met, my friend? As a child you had hidden behind your brothers as they met with me. It had taken you quite some convincing to believe that I would indeed be your friend. There was a time when you would be found with me more often than the brothers you adored. Would you have believed then, that we would be forever by each other's side? You still live with us, Aragorn, and you always will, and so it is that I ask you- what do I do, _mellon_? What shall be my path?

I walk solemnly down the paths of your halls, mellon, and I see the twins awaiting me. I see the pain in their eyes, Aragorn, it is hidden away, but it is there, clear as the light of day. They know what ails me and I am wrapped in their embrace, feeling like a little elfling whose only heroes were his father, and the twins. The tears fell that day Aragorn, as they had not in a long time. They told me to sail and fulfill the longing that has been bearing upon me, and this I said to them, that I could not leave knowing that Gimli still roams these lands. Do you know what they told me Aragorn? They told me that it hurt to see their little prince hurting like this, mellon. They told me that neither you nor Gimli would want me to suffer so. They told me that he would understand what it means to let me go. I know now the path that awaits me, Aragorn, but I know that I am not at peace with it. I seek now the one friend left of us, hoping he will know the path better than me.

I see him now, standing on his own two legs as sturdy as ever. His axe I see no longer, the only hint of the colour of steel being his now ashen beard,and that glint in his eyes. A challenge still lingers there, and I would have it no other way with the dwarf. Soon, he two will be clamped down by the jaws of death, and of our Fellowship, I alone will remain. As he approaches me, my doubts plague me once more, Aragorn. How can I leave this dwarf who braved all our prejudices and fears to stay by my side? By his own words then, would I not be faithless? When we met, he asked me, in no uncertain terms, why I refused to get on a ship and sail, and if I had, why I hadn't told him yet. I asked him then, Aragorn, how was it that he had come to accept such a grevious parting so easily, and this is what he said, mellon. _Do you remember the days after the coronation, elf?_ He asked me. Seeing a slight nod, he went on. _Do you remember what I told you then? That I would follow you to Fangorn if you would come with me to Aglarond. I loved not the trees laddie, but I would have gone through those murderous boughs a thousand more times if it meant I would go with you._ Then, Aragorn, he said to me the words that eased away all my worries. Words that I would ever remember for I had said the same to you all those years ago. He said, _we will make this adventure together, my friend. Hither you go, thither I follow._


	18. This Was My Choice

**This Was My Choice**

Summary*

**She was the Evenstar of her people. Fair even among the fair kindred, but in times of darkness, even beauty withers and fades away along with all else save strength and courage. A choice she had made, and a heavy price she had paid for it, but perhaps there is much more to it than just the man she loves.**

She was the light of her people. Undómiel she was aptly named. The Evenstar. Fair even among the fair people, her beauty lightened the hearts of all those around her, not least of all the King of Gondor. Such beauty was meant to endure the sands of time. Such beauty should have lived on unblemished by death or grief. Such beauty should have remained immortal, not only in legends and works of art, but in the eyes of those that beheld her. Her fair face glowed with the radiance of Varda's crown jewels, her soft voice sweet as honey to those that listened. Her raven black hair glimmered like a clear night sky that was adorned with the moon that was her circlet. Her tenderness was like that of a new leaf sprinkled with dew, facing the new morning with courage and beauty. Yet, her strength lay hidden in her. The world knew of her beauty. The world knew of her choice. The world knew her as a daughter of the stars, and as a queen of men. They knew her as one who shared not only Lúthien's face,but her fate as well. What no one else knows is the strength that hid beneath her beauty. The strength to bear the pain that came her way. The strength to make a choice that sundered her loved ones only to entwine her fate with the one she loved with her life.

It was a curse, and yet at the same time, a blessing that she had inherited from Elrond Half-Elven, her father. Her unique heritage had thrust upon her family a choice that threatened to tear them apart. A choice to accept the 'gift of men' or thwart it. In the many centuries that she had lived, she had not thought of her choice for long, for she had seen much more. She had seen the darkness rise out of the shadow. She had seen her mother returned bloody, bruised, defiled, and broken beyond repair. She had first seen her family sundered when her mother sailed west to heal the hurts that even the caring hands of her father could not. She had seen her brothers succumb to grief and vengeance, ever riding out to rid the lands of what remained of the evil kind. She had seen the weight of his choice bearing down on her father a few times, reminding her of what she had been taught to accept- their family would not, _should_ not, be parted once more. They would all follow their father's footsteps to choose the life if the Eldar. She had seen much joy, but she had also seen beauty. She had grown up under her grandmother's care, in the famed forests of the Golden Woods. Galadriel had soothed her worries and soon Arwen had grown up to be a beautiful elleth befitting her lineage.

All those years away from her father and brothers had done her much good, though at times she had briefly wondered if she could continue living that way. She had prayed for strength to make the pain of longing bearable, and her wish had been kindly granted. If she had thought that her time away from the brothers who had loved her so had tested her strength, she was mistaken. She had been leaving her safe haven for home,a place she had longed to see, yet dreaded too. It held too many memories that were still only beginning to fade away with the tears that they often brought on her fair face. She only hoped to be reunited with her Ada, whom she had gone without seeing for longer than her heart could possibly bear. Even as she arrived within the borders of the place she called home, she was filled with memories of old. A time that was now lost forever, along with the innocent and carefree childhood of the three elflings that had been a part of it. It was at such a time that a voice had snapped her out of her thoughts. _Tinúviel! Tinúviel! _the voice cried, startling her, yet what startled her more was it's owner. She knew then that he had not been too mistaken, for she suspected that her fate would not be too different from the one she had been likened to.

The years that followed had been tumultuous indeed, inflicting upon her both immeasurable joy and incomprehensible grief. She could only hope that He would grace her with the wisdom to make the right decision. She was not speaking of her heart. No indeed, it had been taken without her say in the matter. She spoke of her mind instead. Of the conflict between what she knew she _should_ do, and what she _wished_ to do. His name was Aragorn, she had come to learn of the man who had managed to enchant her so. Estel, he had been called when he had been accepted into the house of Elrond. The hope of men, and yet, more importantly, he was _her_ hope. She knew what he meant to her,what lengths she would be willing to go for him. She would give up her immortality for him, but could she give up her family? Would she be so cruel as to punish her loved ones with an eternal parting that would hurt them as much as her mother's fate had, if not more? Would she force her mother to the pain she knew her mother would feel, having waited so long for a daughter who was doomed never to return to her loving arms? Would she force upon her father the pain of losing the daughter he had tried so hard to protect? Would she mercilessly allow her brothers to suffer so that she can find happiness with one they had loved as a brother? _Would she condemn them to chose between their parents and their sister?_

It was not long before her father came to know of it. She knew both he and Galadriel had foreseen it, but unlike Elrond, Galadriel knew that there was nothing they could do about it. Knowingly or not, the choice was certain, waiting for the day it would be sealed forever.

When they had met once more at Lothlórien, she had betrothed herself to him upon Cerin Amroth. He had promised Elrond to seek her hand in marriage only after reclaiming the White City that was rightfully his. Even as he led the people against the shadow of Mordor, her choice had become clearer still. She would yet meet her family after the end of the world, after Dagor Dagorath, but if she followed her father now, she would live an eternity of regret, never finding peace. She had doubted only once, that Estel would never return to her, but she had been gifted with a glimpse of a future for them. Moreover,her choice had been made, and there would be no ship that would bear her across the sea. She had waited patiently for her beloved, hoping that he would come out of the ordeal alive. She had seen her brothers' faces crumble upon seeing that her choice had been made, but in the end, they had accepted it. They had seen that her happiness mattered more to them, and they could not deny that Estel was not unworthy, even if they had felt the sting of betrayal for a time. It was her _Adar_ who had taken longer to come to terms with her choice. It had torn her apart seeing that her family was grieving because of her, but she saw no other way.

She had felt her struggles worth every bit when Aragorn returned to her victorious. Elrond himself had handed over the sceptre of Arnor, and they were we'd amidst much joy. Aragorn had been there for her, a pillar of strength, when the ring-bearers had finally sailed west with the fading of the time of the elves. They had shared a tearful farewell alone, away from prying eyes, and she would not tell anyone of what was shared between them, but Elrond had left, content to know that his little daughter would be safe and happy in the hands of the man _he_ had raised. Her times with Eldarion and her daughters had brought her much joy. Elladan and Elrohir had delayed their choice. They visited her often,and were as loving uncles as they had been brothers. They had taken over as the Lords of Rivendell, yet they were often found at Minas Tirith, sometimes with their sister or brother, and other times with Legolas who was their brother in arms too. Alas! With the passing of spring, winter too must come some day. Over a hundred years had passed since Aragorn had become king. Their time together was ending.

She had been with him when he had died. She had held his hand as he had breathed his last, calling him _Estel_ lovingly, brokenly, hoping against hope that he would come back to her once more, but it was not to be. All that was fair had faded away,and so had her _Estel_. Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas had lost a brother in him, but she had lost more. She had to be strong for her children now. It would not be easy for Eldarion to take the place of his father so soon, and so, for a year she would endure. For a year she would stay and guide him as they had before. For a year she would give them all the love a mother could, before leaving to find the one place she could have peace. Where in the past centuries had gone by in the blink of an eye, she had felt every moment during the one year. When the time had come, she had bade farewell to her children quietly, and left with her brothers to what had once been the fair Lothlórien. She had roamed the place a while with her brothers, each lost in memory, and then, seeking solitude, went quietly to Cerin Amroth, where it had all started. She thought of all that had happened ever since with a small sad smile on her face. _This was my choice_, she whispered. _Namarië Elladan, Elrohir, forgive me_ she said to the brothers she had left behind with no proper farewell, for she knew neither could bear such a cruel parting. Finally, a smile lighting her face, she lay down on the sacred ground she held close to her heart, closing her eyes one last time. She did not see the silhouettes of two identical figures in the forest around the clearing, having followed their sister till she had gone far beyond their reach. She did not hear their final goodbye,nor did she see the silent tears that unabashedly streamed down their faces.


	19. One Last Farewell

**One Last Farewell**

Summary*

**It has been many years since the Elvenking has found peace. Long has war raged across the borders of his kingdom, and many of his kin has he lost to the Halls of Mandos. His son has left to be the Lord of a different land. Many more of his kindred have sailed across the sea, and yet he has tarried long. Duty has held him back for so long, but not any more. His burdens will finally be lifted as he leaves Middle-Earth one last time.**

It has never been an easy decision for me. Nay. Time and again I have stayed, watching many an elf leave the shores but never leaving them myself. Long have I awaited this day. The day when I will heed the call of the sea, and the cries of the gulls will be a melody that no longer torments me. The day when I will be reunited with all those who left for the Halls of Mandos or the fair lands across the sea much before their time. This day on, I would cease to simply be the King of my people. Centuries have gone by since I had first been burdened by the crown that had been bestowed upon me upon the death of my father. _Father. King Oropher._ At long last, I will meet him again. Him, and all others that were sundered by the great seas that lie between us. Once more will I walk among the great heroes of old, but that is not what will matter the most, for once again, my family will be _whole_.

I alone linger here when all others have sailed, for it is not easy to part with the land that has become one with you. The trees still sing to me, mourning what was once fair, and yet, intertwined is a melody that brings newfound hope with the dawn of each day. With the sailing of the ring-bearers, the numbers of my people are dwindling, their hope long gone, and as the last of them sail, I will finally join them having done my duty as their king. I had hoped once that Legolas would lead my people some day, just as I had, but his was a different path. He gave our people a new home at Ithilien and no father could be more proud of his son than I was. If his destiny never led him back home to me, then so be it. He had seen in the race of men what many had not. He had gained the friendship and trust of a dwarf, ending a long standing enmity between their races. He had stayed true to the Fellowship even in the darkest hours, and Ithilien had thrived because if him. At long last, I will see him once more.

Legolas had sailed with Gimli not long after Aragorn's and Arwen's passing. They had been brothers in all but blood, and the death had hit him hard. Arwen's passing was like salt rubbed against a healing wound. The jolly little halflings were now entombed too. Two alone remained of nine, and there was naught I could do to comfort him. How I wish I could gather him into my arms, embracing him, stroking his hair and soothing him as I did when he was a mere elfling. Beyween us lies great distance and responsibilities, and each of us fight the grief alone. Such is the fate of the Elder, to see the Edain grow and fade away while they lived long, their memories the only sign of age. Legolas had heard the gulls calling to him even before the war had ended, but much like myself, he felt that he had a duty of his own. A duty not only to lead the folk of Ithilien, but to guide Eldarion when fate had cruelly torn his father away from him. With Eldarion old enough to reign well, and with the remnants of the Fellowship lost to death with the exception of his friend Gimli, there wasn't much left that could convince him to stay. It was not lost on him that come a few years, Gimli too would be swallowed whole by the unforgiving jaws of death. I did not need to look into his eyes, ones oft likened to my own, to know that he had to leave, if not for himself, then to fulfil a promise he had made to Gimli. As a King, I could have commanded him to stay and take over the mantle of an Elvenking of a diminishing people, but as a father, I would never have forgiven myself if I had done so. Not many knew as well as I the burden of having kingship thrust upon young and inexperienced shoulders. It was something nobody deserved to bear for long. The title came with as many responsibilities as luxuries, if not more. Soon enough, I would embrace him once more as a father would, away from the scrutiny of the court. Once more will I meet my _son_.

All these years, Celeborn has stayed and ruled our people with me, and for that, I am grateful. He alone of those remaining knows what we have lost for so long. The Lady Galadriel awaits him on the other side, as does my queen for me. So does Celeborn's long-lost daughter. Elrond will be there with her,and he shall see them content to have each other. Of two grandchildren, he knows naught. Ever since Arwen's passing, they have never been seen. Lingering traces had been found of their existence, but it has been long since anyone else has met them. It has been presumed that Glorfindel accompanies them, still keeping his word to fend for the line of Turgon and Elenwë. Naught is known of their choice either, and we can only hope to find them on the other side of the sea. Perhaps, Celeborn has lost more than I, for Arwen will not smile upon him in the blessed realm either. The Evenstar will no longer dwell among her kin, for with the passing of Elessar, she had followed too soon. Celeborn stayed for his people and I stayed for mine. The time of the elves is now found but in legend and lore. The age of men has just dawned. It is now that I will say my last goodbye. To the lands that sheltered me for so long. Many ages have passed, and the land alone remains wiser than any of the firstborn that walked upon its green paths.

The time has come to part from these lands, never to return to it. Peace and healing I will find on the other side, but the woods will always be a part of me. Farewell, my friends, I would say to them had my heart not felt so torn between leaving my haven for a new one. They know as well as I that it is time I take my leave.

_One last time, I bid thee farewell, the trees and rivers flowing._

_One last time time I bid thee farewell, the wise creatures that I've seen growing._

_One last time I bid thee farewell, the majestic trees of old._

_One last time I bid thee farewell, the great lands whose tales are told._

_One last time I bid thee farewell, those on this side of the sea._

_One last time I bid thee farewell, those who will not be going with me._


End file.
